Mother Knows Best
by conchepcion
Summary: Mrs Holmes and Mrs Hooper unite creating havoc in their midst for their kids, causing the two stubborn adults having to work together to stop their mothers. Unfortunately a mother is always one-step ahead. Two mothers, well, you can imagine. Nominated for Best Humor SAMFAS 2012.
1. Curtains Up

**I am still writing "It happened one night," which is my main-focus, but I had to write this out today. My inner mother got the best of me, and I couldn't shake off the dialogue. Luckily I'll not let myself be too diverted by this entirely. If you think this is interesting, do comment, I'd like to know whether or not this is fun.**

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><p><strong>1: Curtains Up<strong>

Sherlock Holmes, 35, single-sleuth, with steady-fast newly engaged companion John Watson 38, consulting detectives to Scotland Yard – protecting our London, "They're not really _protecting_. We just come to them if things get out of hand," says DI Lestrade, looking into the camera. "Of course they only take the interesting cases anyway, and those are the ones you hear of in the paper." What can you say of his private life? "The private life of Sherlock Holmes? _Honestly_, I don't think he has one." "He's a freak," says sergeant Donovan over Lestrade's shoulder. How so? "There are no women in his life, are there? He doesn't care for that sort of thing." What about you? "You mental?"

So he's got nothing like that on his plate? "Oh, he's never been one for that sort of business really. He's got people who help him just," says Mrs Hudson cheerily. But then why does he consort with - Molly Hooper, single, 33, has a cat, doesn't intend to get married "Why should I? There's absolutely no reason for it." Does she want children? She just frowns, before turning her back to us. "So, I do want kids, I'll admit it, but at this point I'll opt for adoption. Haven't got time though, it's quite hectic at work at the moment," Sherlock Holmes enters the lab grabs something and leaves. We see Molly's face, she sighs. "You help a man, and this is what you get." Sherlock Holmes man of action is too busy to worry about love. "Passion is just physical. I can control my desires quite easily. I don't see the point of such trivial distractions. Sex is dull and repetitive." John Watson just looks at him shaking his head. Mycroft Holmes laughs, "How would you know?" Sherlock looks into the camera "I think that's quite enough."

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><p><em>A MONTH LATER - 10 JULY, 08:47<em>

John Watson was sitting in his new flat, with his wife Mary Watson, who was a tiny blonde female, and who was currently making them breakfast. He looked at her with a pleased expression, with his tanned skin. They had recently gotten back from their honeymoon, which was a pleasant break from the otherwise hectic daily life he'd have with his best friend Sherlock Holmes. The same man who ended up texting him quite frequently during his honeymoon. Texts which John ended up ignoring, despite his wife even saying "You could answer him you know, it might be important."

"Yes, he might need someone to wedge his mobile phone out of his front pocket."

So, there he was newly returned, satiated, breakfast on the table, and paper in his hand. He opened the paper, leafed through it, reading about various things he was certain Sherlock would not be interested in, until his eyes rested upon the big bold font, which blared out of the page, causing him to choke on his cup of tea.

_THREE DAYS EARLIER - 7 JULY, 15:36_

Molly Hooper knew it was _her _weekend. This was her weekend off – three full days of complete nothing. No interruption, no annoying detective mucking up with her business, and her mobile phone was even turned off – in case he were to bother her. He had been an irritating knave the moment John Watson had hurried off happily to his honeymoon, as if she were some sort of replacement. He'd never considered her before that, and after he'd uttered her importance – she felt herself less important than usual, and now she was entirely fine with it. She was over it, end of discussion, and so she sat with her face to be glued in front of her telly, bunched under her soft blankets, as her cat Toby stretched out in front of her. That was when the phone rang, of course – the landline.

She ignored it, that's what was she was going to do – she was not going to care. It was he of course, it had to be, the sick man couldn't stand to wait three days for John Watson to return, before coming out with another list of demands. No, she would not give him corpses. No, she would not help him with getting his phone. No, she would not send a text. _No_. The phone stopped ringing, and she smiled – sighing loudly and happily. Maybe he'd think she was out. Of course that's when the doorbell went off. She gaped, before wrenching off her covers, hands on hips, and touched the intercom "Hello," she said through gritted teeth, expecting the deep bass on the other end.

"Yes, hello dear. I tried the phone, but you didn't answer," says a female drawl.

Molly blanches.

"Who is this?" she asks.

"I think I can answer that question better if you were to open the door dear," says the woman.

Molly stands uneasily for a moment, before reluctantly buzzing the woman in. She hoped it wasn't a saleswoman, who'd try to coerce her into buying a ridiculous coin-collection or something. Molly opens the door, and sees a tall slender elderly woman with white hair walk up in the most elegant purple attire.

The woman gives her quite the bright smile, before extending her hand daintily, which Molly receives quite confused.

"Can I come in?" enquires the woman, after a moment of awkward silence – at which Molly steps aside, letting the woman go in.

She shuts the door, and finds the female seated in her sofa, pushing off several of the blankets to the side, before crossing her legs. "You're probably wondering who I am."

Molly looks at the woman expectantly. "I am Mrs Holmes, Elizabeth Holmes," she says with a small smile playing on her painted red lips.

Molly blinks longer than necessary, and stands confused by her own door. "I'm sorry?"

"Yes, I should probably explain why I am here too," she adds, gesturing to the chair, which Molly dumps herself into feeling like a guest in her own home.

"I am here to talk to you about something important Doctor Hooper," she says before pouring Molly her cup of tea, and handing it to her. Molly just takes it in her hand, as she feels slightly dazed by the whole turn of events.

"I am getting old, at some point I will most likely die," says Mrs Holmes looking a bit irritated by this fact. "This is where you will help."

Molly starts to assume that she wants help with immortality or prolonged living or whatever ridiculous notion this woman had.

"I don't think that's entirely my field," says Molly with furrows in her brows.

"Why ever not, I did my research quite properly, and you are not _barren_," says Mrs Holmes causing Molly to spit out the tea.

"Excuse me?" says Molly wide-eyed after recovering from some coughing.

"I want to have grandchildren before I go Doctor Hooper – small itty bitty children laughing around in my house, before I go rotting in the ground."

"And I'm the woman for _that_?" says Molly incredulously putting her tea on the table.

"My son does spend a great amount of time at your work, wouldn't you say?" says Mrs Holmes thoughtfully with a smile.

"Well, yes, but-," Molly tries to interject.

"You both have a love for corpses and these odd mysteries of his."

"I think you-,"

"I dare say my other son Mycroft can't be asked for the task."

"But I-,"

"Don't you want children Doctor Hooper? If you don't do it now, you'll be past your prime."

"Now, see-,"

"My son is also not a terrible man. He might not be sociable of nature, and have quite the mood-swings, but I am certain we can come to an agreement," says Mrs Holmes with a smile, as Molly just gapes at her, before finally catching a big enough pause – she hurriedly says –

"I am sorry Mrs Holmes, but I'm certainly _not_ the woman for the job," relief floods her, as the words are out.

"Why ever not?" asks Mrs Holmes looking a bit disappointed.

Molly laughs this time, quite a great deal too, stopping only at Mrs Holmes dreadfully serious expression. She could see how they were related.

"I am sorry, but we _are_ talking about Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock Holmes who is married to his job, and would not look at _me_ for anything except corpses. I might have come to his aid several times, but it doesn't mean I'll be carrying his child any time soon."

"Oh," she just replies, looking a bit frustrated, but not really upset.

"So I'm sorry," says Molly with a small awkward smile.

Mrs Holmes just gives her a bright one back, at which Molly gets worried. "No, problem Doctor Hooper – I have luckily other candidates."

She didn't.

"I'm sure you'll get someone who'd be willing to do it," says Molly, as Mrs Holmes stands up from her sofa, before walking off to the door.

Mrs Holmes turns around on the spot, eyeing Molly for a moment saying with a rather pleased expression "Your mother is a delightful woman, you should ring her more often," and then she left, with her odd offer, or so Molly Hooper thought with relief – yet she was curious as to why she'd spoken with her mum.

We return to John Watson three days later, who is mopping the front of his robe, while gaping at the ridiculous headlines. He had seen many headlines mentioning him and his friend, but he had never seen this - _"Infamous detective Sherlock Holmes engaged to pathologist Molly Hooper."_


	2. Drumroll please

**Threw this out, damn those plot-bunnies. Love your enthusiasm! I'm so weak for this plot it is sickening. Can you believe I've been sitting on this one for months? Gosh, well, do comment if you like the turn of events. I do like to keep my readers on their toes. Luckily this was already plotted out months ago, so I am not without my plans!**

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><p><strong>2: Drumroll please<strong>

John Watson, you've known him the best, how would you describe him? He purses his lips a bit, looking thoughtful. "Well, he's – not a _people person _certainly, but he's an amazing detective." The rumours circulating about you two then – what do you have to say? He looks agitated. "What _rumours_?" Well, you were a _bachelor_. "I _am _engaged you know." Yes, that was quite recent, wasn't it? "We've been together for a year mind you." Mary Morstan sits besides him, biting her lip, before bursting out in laughter. "Edit that bit out," he adds grinning at his fiancé, who mouths, "He's not gay."

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><p><em>10 JULY, 09:34<em>

John Watson dressed quite quickly, scampering off to 221b Baker Street, looking frazzled with the newspaper tucked under his arm. It was apparent during the duration of the drive over to Baker Street, that he was a mixture of various emotions. There was no help in the fact that the cabbie said, "Say congratulations to your mate, will you!" before driving off, causing him to stand frowning at the pavement.

He'd barely even touched his tea, and he was already on the same path of madness. What had Sherlock Holmes gotten himself into this time? He opened the door, barged up the stairs, past a Mrs Hudson who gave him a brief hello, before he yelled "That's low, even for you. What the _hell_ are you mixing yourself up with Molly Hooper for?" he says trying to contain his irritation, failing quite horribly.

Sherlock Holmes though is not interested in what he's saying, and is more or less causing quite the mess in an already messy flat. John stops in his tracks, taking in the scene, as Sherlock is still in his silk-robe, and seems quite agitated.

"_Wait_, this isn't some sort of under-cover-operation then?" he asks quietly.

Sherlock stands up briefly from crouching by the chair.

"No, John, no - not at all. I certainly do not enter in engagements lightly. Never been a man for weddings – _only_ for stopping them."

That's when John starts laughing.

"It's gossip then?" he says, after catching Sherlock's expression - an expression that is of boredom, and lacks all the mirth.

"Mindless dribble written by the tabloid papers. You have read them before - _bachelor_ John Watson. That is why you are here, because you were afraid I had gotten engaged? _People will definitively talk_."

John looks at Sherlock with an irritated expression.

"No, I thought you were using Molly Hooper for something."

"I have always used Molly Hooper for something. A fact she and me both are very aware of I might add," says Sherlock, the smallest of smiles on his face, before disappearing behind the chair again.

John stands there frowning at his friend.

"So, no greeting, no _hello_ – how are you – been good-," John starts saying raising his brows, while sighing.

Sherlock's head pops up from behind the chair.

"Yes, of course. You've returned. How long were you gone again?" he quips with a raised brow.

"Three weeks," says John, his brows knitted together.

"Yes, _well_, as you see I live," says Sherlock disappearing behind the chair again.

John stands uneasily, before asking, "What _are_ you doing?"

"I am looking for something," he shouts from the floor, which he's obviously crawling on. He raises himself from the floor, before shouting the arbitrary "MRS HUDSON!"

Mrs Hudson comes running up the stairs, "What is it dear?" she asks, eyeing the paper in John's hand smiling a bit, before directing her full attention on Sherlock.

"Have you seen it?" he asks her annoyed by her distraction.

"Seen what dear?" she asks raising her shoulders at him, trying to contain her mirth, as she's obviously thinking of the various articles.

"_The ring_," he says irritated, at which John turns his head to Mrs Hudson gaping, but she doesn't seem surprised at the question whatsoever.

"No, I haven't seen the ring. It's not my fault if you've gone and lost it, is it? I'm not your housekeeper."

"You've moved it, haven't you?" he says heatedly while pointing at her.

Mrs Hudson just says, "I'll help you look."

"_No_, fine just go," he barks for a moment, and she just widens her eyes at John, before walking downstairs again. Sherlock settles down in his regular chair, tapping his fingers on his knee, looking quite riled up.

"You might understand that I'm a bit confused right now. You're _looking_ for a ring?"

"Yes, _a ring_," says Sherlock shutting his eyes for a moment, palms pressed together.

"This is not an engagement ring, I suppose – just your _regular_ run-in-the-mill ring, some victim's had, or something. A clue, right?" asks John who seats himself down opposite Sherlock.

Sherlock opens his eyes, as he says "No."

The edges of John's mouth twitch.

"It's an engagement ring, then?" John asks trying to be cool.

"Yes."

John whistles, before laughing quite heartily.

"That's _quite_ a coincidence," he says trying to supress his amusement.

"Exactly," says Sherlock with a serious expression.

John looks at him surprised. "_What's_ going on then?"

"I'm not sure John, but I am afraid my mother might be involved."

"_Your mother_?" says John who starts to laugh, but is cut short with a venomous expression from Sherlock.

"So, your mother is not like regular mothers, then?" he asks only receiving silence from Sherlock.

Sherlock gives a big sigh before saying, "No, she isn't."

__TWO HOURS EARLIER - 10 JULY, 07:45__

Molly Hooper is quite calm when she wakes up. She's been resting the entire weekend; her phone was turned off – both of them this time, as she avoided all modes of communication. Had she checked she would have known that she had about thirty messages, and twenty-five phone calls from friends and family all congratulating her. More attention than she'd usually receive on her birthday, but then again had she known the reason they were congratulating her she would not be pleased.

So, she walked completely unaware, and found some casual staring, thinking pleased to herself that she had chosen quite the pleasant colour of a cardigan. She didn't know that she was passing several papers with her face plastered besides the sleuth himself. Pictures that were taken from the last couple of weeks, at which she'd helped him. Pictures, which came hand in hand when one, were to collaborate with Sherlock Holmes these days.

Molly Hooper was blissfully ignorant, but she couldn't ignore it – it wasn't before she came to work that she was aware of it. People were staring, openly talking, and looking at her with great amusement. She looked at them oddly, as she walked in uncertainty towards her office – until her best friend the redhead Julie showed up grinning, "Why haven't you answered my calls?" she asks half-shrieking.

Molly raises her brows "My phone has been off – is something _wrong_ with everyone today? They are staring, and I'd _not_ really say that usually, but they are _really _staring," she says smiling awkwardly at people, who laugh and giggle amongst themselves.

She decides briefly against the bright red cardigan.

"Molly, you _are_ kidding, right?" says Julie laughing, as they enter Molly's office, which has various assortments of flowers at the desk, and several newspapers piled on top of each other.

Molly eyes everything apprehensively. Julie picks one paper up, and shows the front page to Molly causing her to gape at her own picture.

"What the bloody hell?" she snaps causing the colour to fade from Julie's face.

"You don't know?" she says in awe.

"No, I _don't_ bloody well know – _I'm not_ – _I'm not_ – I'm _not_ engaged – I'm certainly not _engaged_ to Sherlock Holmes," she says a bit hysterical throwing the paper aside in shock. Julie tries to keep a serious expression, but giggles press out of her mouth.

Molly looks distraught, as she starts to pace in her own office.

"Then apparently you better talk with your mum – _she's_ under the impression that you _are _engaged with your long-time crush," says Julie biting her lip.

"Not, I'm not – I don't fancy him like _that_ – anymore, OK? Just no, _oh god_, what the flipping – what is it mum has gone and done?" says Molly, tears almost in her eyes, as she starts nervously biting her nails.

Julie slaps her hand away from her mouth, before stopping her pacing, and taking her by the shoulders.

"You've got to get yourself together. This _isn't_ horrible. This is OK. You can handle this. This is just gossip. It will fade. Just call your mum and fix it. She'll sort it out with the papers, and everything will go back to _normal_."

Molly starts nodding with Julie, who nods in turn.

"You're right of course, _of course_ you're right! Right, _god_, well – try to tell everyone that it isn't true, then – would you please? Or else I can't face anyone today," says Molly half-laughing, before catching a glimpse of an envelope, which stands quite prominent on the table.

"They've started to give me cards too, then," she says picking it up, fidgeting with the envelope, which is quite light.

Julie just smiles at her brightly, before saying "I'll just go, and try to keep everyone from saying anything, Ok? You'll be fine, right?"

"Yes," says Molly feeling a bit better, as Julie leaves her office. She opens the envelope attempting to pull out the piece of paper - causing a small object to fall with a clatter on the office floor. She gapes at the object, blinking several times in denial, before gingerly picking up what happens to be an engagement ring. Her eyes return to the piece of paper in her hand – _This is yours_, it says.


	3. Hold the applause

**Your comments just keep me writing. It's really frustrating I'll have you know. NOT, thank you for your lovely comments though. I really **_**really**_** appreciate them whole-heartedly.**

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><p><strong>3: Hold the applause<strong>

Mycroft Holmes 46, single – how exactly would you describe your brother? "Enigmatic. Quite the extraordinary man, if he were to involve himself in a different field," So you do not approve? "I do not approve of most of his doings," he says, a quick smile into the camera. What can you tell us about the man behind the myth? Mycroft raises a brow at this. "He is not some sort of God. No, I wouldn't say that. He is an ordinary man."

Yet he has no intention of involving himself? "Involving himself? _Human relations_? The fickle stuff that people like to gossip about. I do not think, so – _no_ – actually I'm quite certain that he would never involve himself in those kind of sordid affairs." You feel strongly about this? Mycroft Holmes frowns.

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><p><em>10 JULY, 09:54<em>

Back in 221b Baker Street, one finds John Watson awkwardly typing, as Sherlock Holmes dictates to him his sentences. Every single slow tap to the keyboard is taken uneasily in, as every word reminds John of one thing.

"You are sure about this?" says John eyeing Sherlock, who looks at him in surprise.

"You are doubting my judgement in this matter – _why_?"

"I think you should talk to Molly first actually," says John anxiously stepping away from the laptop.

"_Why_ should I talk with Molly? She will understand. This is all a part of the plan," says Sherlock gesturing with his hands slightly maddened. He's still not dressed, wandering in his robe until now.

"A plan you're not involving her in, and anyway what kind of plan is this – you're better than this-," says John who sees Sherlock's slightly crazed expression.

Sherlock just looks at him, as John raises a brow at his friend.

"You're terrified of your own mother," he says in absolute awe.

"I am _not _afraid of her," says Sherlock obviously rattled.

"Usually you're enjoying this. Usually you're over the moon with amazement when people manage to trick you, but _now_ – look at you," says John cracking up despite himself.

Sherlock walks towards the window, his back to John.

"We have had our disagreements," says Sherlock quietly, after a while of silence, in which John tries to stifle his laughter. "She is quite the woman, John. Well, she had to be," he says causing John to roll his eyes.

"Can't you just give her a quick phone-call, ask her about this?"

"We don't do _phone-calls_ in this family. We don't do the _cosy_ attempts at regular family behaviour," Sherlock snarls.

"Why is that, then?" asks John frustrated at his friend.

"Every single time we have tried to be in the same room - it has been a disaster. The fact that she is conveniently trying to press me into matrimony-,"

"_Molly's_ mother is the one who's making shrewd comments about that though. The pages are filled with her name," says John grabbing hold of the paper and holding it out to Sherlock, who nabs it, reading the pages hurriedly.

"They must be working together, then," he mutters mouthing some of the words, grimacing at "sexy detective".

"I've never heard anyone so grim over the fact that their mother is trying to fix them up with someone," says John smiling awkwardly, avoiding Sherlock's glare, as he tosses the newspaper aside looking stricken.

"This is no ordinary scenario John. This is a full-on attack – here we _are _on print, and the ring is gone."

"Do explain that to me again – your mother gave that ring to you, so you could keep it for her in _this _flat of all places?" says John eyeing the place.

221b Baker Street was a sort of place where you could hide things, of course that was more unintentional than intentional usually.

"She gave it to me in case I would use it," he says lying down in the sofa, staring crossly at the roof. "_Now_ she has obviously taken it back."

John furrows his brow at that statement, in absolute wonder when it came to the game that Mrs Holmes was playing.

"So - we're just going to confirm that the dribble is true – _because_?" says John staring at the blog-entry he has yet to post.

They had debated that, and it was obvious that John's blog was the one where they'd get proper heading. Though Sherlock would also post a similar one.

"She _will _have to face me if I am indeed engaged," says Sherlock with an odd smile. John looks at him with doubt.

"I still think you should consider Molly," says John after a moment, at which Sherlock soon stands up from the sofa, daintily clicking the_ post _button smugly, before John could stop him.

"I _think_ I can deal with Molly Hooper," he just says looking slightly bored, as John looks irritated shaking his head.

_A HALF HOUR LATER - _10 JULY, 10:24__

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in his office in a meeting with three men - when his little brother barges in the door, without so much as a "hello" seating himself, while John Watson just looks apologetically at both Mycroft and the other people in the room.

Mycroft heaves a sigh, "I am in a rather important meeting, Sherlock, but of course if you are here to talk about your future nuptials? – Do proceed; I think the rest of the assembly would be delighted to hear."

Sherlock glares at his brother.

Mycroft snorts before saying to the three gentlemen "We will have to postpone this meeting until further notice. I'll schedule with Alice."

The men briefly nod, eyeing Sherlock, before leaving the office.

"So what brings you here dear brother – do you need my _consent_, then? I would assume you are old enough to make your own decisions in that realm," asks Mycroft, who has a smug expression on his face. John tries to be all seriousness, as he seats himself in the chair besides Sherlock.

"Mother took the ring," Sherlock just says while quietly removing his leather gloves. Mycroft looks all surprise.

"I didn't know you had it," he replies feigning astonishment, while stacking some paper together on his desk. Sherlock eyes him causing Mycroft to smile. "Of course I knew, it was my idea."

John gapes a little bit, before laughing.

"Your idea?" John says in surprise.

"Well - I am certainly not going to need it," says Mycroft slyly.

"_I am not going to get married_," says Sherlock through gritted teeth looking exasperated.

"Mummy has a different idea I'm afraid," says Mycroft raising his brows. "I would be more worried about the whereabouts of your future bride."

Sherlock and John automatically glance at each other nervously.

"What do you mean?" asks John gingerly, hands fidgeting, as he leans forward in his seat.

"Doctor Watson, it comes to my attention, that mummy has already seized the day, so to speak. Our future lady in white has taken off – one wonders _where_," says Mycroft ceremoniously.

Sherlock stands up roughly, slipping on his gloves again, sneering at his older brother "I will find out what you've really planned here, Mycroft."

"Best you give mummy a ring I think," he replies saucily.

"We don't do_ hello's_ and we definitively don't do _phone calls_," says Sherlock mockingly, before rushing out of the office.

John Watson stands reluctantly from his seat, gives Mycroft a wee nod, before storming after his friend.

"Wait!" he cries out, getting into the hurried pace with Sherlock who looks vexed, as they wander along the corridors.

"So where's Molly?" asks John expectantly.

Sherlock eyes him apprehensively, clearly reluctant to divulge her whereabouts.

_TWO AND A HALF HOURS EARLIER - _10 JULY, 07:50__

Molly Hooper was convinced that the lovely white gold ring was a joke, of course she could spot a fake easily, and as her mother had loved jewelry - she could not deny that this was in fact the real thing. She grimaced at the hand-written note, with fine swirly writing, which she didn't know what she felt about.

"This is yours," she mouthed, silently uttering the words – just as Julie popped her head back in – about to say something entirely different, but of course distracted by -

"What's that?" she asks astonished, staring at the ring.

"A ring," says Molly holding it out in her hand amazed.

Julie gets in her office, snaps the door shut, and stares at it in wonder "That's _quite_ a ring."

"It came in an envelope - with this note," says Molly showing the note to Julie, who also mouths the words, before gaping at Molly.

"He's actually proposing," she says breaking out into the biggest smile.

Molly's brows are up in her hair.

"I don't think so, no. No, he's not. This is not from him," she says through gritted teeth.

Julie's grin fades.

"Oh, well, then who's giving you a ring then?" she asks eyeing it hungrily.

"I don't know, but I am not keeping it," she says putting the ring back in the envelope hurriedly – holding the envelope as if it were a decease in her hand.

Julie perches her lips a little.

"What?" says Molly curiously to her friend.

"There's someone to see you though, or well – _more_ pick you up."

"_Pick me up_?" says Molly in all astonishment.

_TWO AND A HALF HOURS LATER - __10 JULY, 10:30___

Sherlock Holmes stops in the hallway, with his friend saying quite slowly, as if it were of utter importance -

"John, I know you know very little of my past, but you must keep an open mind."

"I think I've managed to maintain that through our knowing each other," says John grinning cheekily.

Sherlock frowns, but brushes that asides.

"She's at the estate," he blurts out.

"The_ estate_?" says John in wonder.

"My home," replies Sherlock looking grim "_My childhood home._"


	4. Take to the stage

**You should see how much I laugh while writing this. It is _absolutely_ sickening. Thank you for the comments - do keep them coming - they are a pleasure and a delight to my muse! Hopefully I can keep up at this rate. I probably will though, especially when everyone's so enthusiastic! Thank you very much!**

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><p><strong>4: Take to the stage<strong>

Mary Morstan 30, engaged to John Watson – do you like Sherlock Holmes? "Well, _like_ is a strong word." She laughs, pausing. "Just kidding, of course I do. He's interesting, that he is, but I understand why John takes to him so much." Why does he? "Because he's brilliant and they are amazing together." You're not worried then? She laughs "No, not at all. I don't think John expects Sherlock to be standing in the wedding-dress, no." Do you think the clever detective would ever? "Stand in the wedding-dress? Well, I suppose he might be inclined. More for a job than anything." She grins at the camera. Do you think he's a man who'd fall in love, then? "You're terribly interested in that." It's what the public wants. She laughs, before biting her lip contemplating. "I'll say this though, the day Sherlock Holmes falls in love – is a day we'll all be surprised."

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><p><em>10 JULY, 07:53<em>

"Who's picking me up?" Molly Hooper asks her best friend Julie Knightley, as they both stand amidst her office with the colourful display of flowers surrounding them.

"There's this driver, you see," says Julie gesturing to the outside of her office.

"Right?" says Molly slowly crossing her arms, as she puts away the envelope with the ring on her desk.

"He belongs to a woman."

"What woman?" asks Molly furrowing her brows.

"A woman who goes by the name of _Mrs Holmes_," says Julie grinning.

Molly Hooper stares at Julie, who just stands there awkwardly.

"I can't go," she says after a pause.

"Don't you think it will be a good idea, then?" asks Julie uneasily.

"Julie – _Julie_ – are you serious – do you see what I am flipping surrounded with? I haven't even turned on my phone, I've gotten a ring from some unknown source and now Sherlock Holmes's mum is picking me up-,"

"With a limo-," adds Julie.

"_With a limo_," repeats Molly gaping. "What?"

"Yes, a proper limo, with one of those holes in the roof – I'm not talking about the ones you can rent for a night out on the town. We're talking the Rolls Royce of limos."

"This is not helping," says Molly frowning, before settling down in the nearest chair, feeling short of breath all of a sudden. Julie stands by her.

"You could go, see what she wants to talk to you about?" says Julie, causing Molly to glare at her. They had talked about it, Molly had phoned Julie right after Mrs Holmes had appeared asking for grandchildren.

"I should have called mum. She was right. Is this the punishment for not phoning her up enough – since mum, I'm sorry – but this is too much," says Molly, halfway to herself, and half to her friend Julie, who just awkwardly laughs.

"You'd get away from all this though," says Julie.

Molly looks at her with a hopeful expression, "You are right, but at what cost – there's a ring."

"You said he didn't send it."

"What if he_ did_ send it? He's been on my case these last few weeks," says Molly diverting between being aggravated and confused.

"Yes, well, then again – would Sherlock Holmes actually propose to anyone by sending them an envelope with a ring in it?" says Julie.

They both say "no," simultaneously frowning at each other.

"It has got to be his mother, then," says Molly grinning standing up from her seat, before reaching out to the envelope on her desk. "She did show up at my place, and I turned her down. Obviously this has got to be her handy-work."

"You should really call your mother though," says Julie.

Molly looks bemused.

"Right now? Because I think that can wait at the moment," she says stuffing the envelope in her purse, before straightening on her red cardigan.

"_Molly_," says Julie narrowing her eyes.

Molly turns her head around almost shrieking "What?"

"Why can't you call your mum?"

"No reason."

"_Molly_?"

Molly Hooper makes the biggest distraught whelp of a sound, before clinging to the front of Julie's shirt "OK, so she called. Yes, it was weeks ago, I never really thought it through. She asks me what I was doing, and I said I was helping Sherlock Holmes. And she of course asks why – _would he want help from you?_ I laugh, and I laugh, before I say we're engaged silly. I just never thought she'd take me bloody seriously. My mum seemed to laugh at it; good joke, and I end up feeling like a twat. Now _instead _my mum has taken my casual remark, and shoved it front of –_ wait_ – every single bloody newspaper out there – causing this freak show to flourish, and now his mother. _His actual mother_ has given me a ring," she says without breath, looking absolutely crazed.

Julie looks at her shocked, before bursting out in full laughter. Molly looks anguished.

"How can you laugh – this isn't funny-," snaps Molly in distress.

"I am _so _sorry," says Julie out of breath, "Just, really, I am, but you've got to see the bright side of this."

"That is?"

"You've got loads of flowers to make potpourri if you want."

"Ha-ha," she says sheepishly covering her face with her hands, before dumping herself back on the chair.

Julie puts a hand on her shoulder consolingly. "I think you better go with the limo though, really. Mrs Holmes might sort this out for you."

"Yes, after I've handed her a seven-pound doe-eyed little baby," says Molly grimly.

"You sound like that's a bad thing."

"This is really not the day for you cracking any more jokes now, Jul's. I've really got a low-threshold for them right now."

"I noticed," says Julie sighing loudly. "But really, think of it, you could probably talk to the woman. _Properly_ talk this time, tell her why you can't give her any _Holmes-babies_, and just ask if she'd be willing to deal with this awful mess with your mum."

"What if she-,"

"Convinces you?" says Julie cheekily. "Yes, well_ then_ have his babies. You're practically engaged to the man."

Molly scowls at her friend, who laughs, before putting on a serious expression of sympathy.

_FIVE HOURS LATER - _10 JULY, 12:14__

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were driving, their destination _Buckinghamshire_. It was very hard not to be aware of the grim expression, which hit the features of Sherlock Holmes, and very difficult to ignore the rather amused John Watson, who kept looking out of the window, as if he wanted to remember the route.

"You know, I've always wondered where you grew up," he says thoughtfully, while Sherlock narrows his eyes. "I've never properly managed to imagine you as a kid to be honest."

"Don't," Sherlock snaps. John just grins, hoping to find a wondrous amount of pictures of a young Sherlock Holmes around his home. The idea that Sherlock or Mycroft Holmes had ever been a child was a bewildering notion. One would just assume they just showed up one-day fully-grown - one with an umbrella in one hand, and the other with his eye for deduction.

"I can't really imagine you climbing up trees, or getting into fights."

"It might surprise you John, but I_ did_ climb up trees to avoid fights. I wasn't stupid," says Sherlock the edge of his mouth turning upwards despite himself.

They both laugh, before Sherlock's expression is once again uninviting.

John frowns, shifting in his seat, before saying after a moment of silence, "_Consider this_ - at least nobody's dead. At least we're not heading off to your mum's because there's a dead body somewhere."

"It wouldn't surprise me," says Sherlock with a sigh.

John raises his brows gaping slightly at his friend.

"That_ hasn't_ actually happened?"

"Our Christmas dinners have been very memorable."

"Crikey, so, what about your father, then – _is he_?"

"_Dead_, afraid, so," says Sherlock with no hint of remorse.

"Right, I guess you didn't like him, then."

Sherlock remains silent, his eyes on the road.

"You've considered the fact that your mother _wants_ you to come visit, right?"

"Yes."

"That posting that entry on both our blogs might not have been the best idea to seize the fire, right?"

"_Yes,"_ and one can see that it takes a great deal of Sherlock to admit, however a little defeat.

"We all act a little bit irrationally around family I suppose," says John, "I can barely manage Harry."

"Yes, and now you've got one on the way," says Sherlock smugly.

John blinks several times, turning to his friend gaping "Sorry?"

"Oh, John_. I know._ We could all see it - it was blatantly obvious. Mary's pregnant – a three year old could deduce that."

"No, she's not," says John, "She's not pregnant – we've taken precautions – _she's pregnant_?"

"You don't know?" says Sherlock furrowing his brows in surprise.

"Does this look like the face of someone who knows?" says John quite heatedly, before taking out his mobile phone.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to call her."

"Now?"

"Yes, bloody well now I am! She doesn't know, _does_ she? She's had zero symptoms. I'm a dad, wait – what-," he says, holding the phone to his ear, while grinning a bit madly. "_Hello_, Mary, _are you pregnant_?"

Sherlock Holmes just looks disgruntled at his friend, wondering if it would be a bad time to hurl his phone out of the car-window. He decides against it. He sits in silence, as his friend looks quite confused by the phone-call. John hangs up after a while, before looking quite pleased.

"She's going to take a test," he just says pocketing his phone.

"She doesn't need to," says Sherlock with distain. John just looks at him with raised brows. "I would like to add that I figured that out _before_ your wedding-day too. Even so, today's events have not affected my skills whatsoever. It is ridiculous of you even to presume so. I have a plan John and I intend to follow it."

"Right, what are you going to do about Molly, then?"

"What about her?" he says obviously not following.

John shakes his head at his friend.

"Sherlock, your mum chose Molly-,"

"Out of yes – how _many _other suitable women do I have in my social-circle, John? Mrs Hudson too old, of course or Sergeant Donavon, I think we can both say _certainly not_. So you see John, there are not many to pick from. Doctor Hooper is a healthy pretty female, and the only suitable out of a total of three women. We are also friends; do not think that my mother choosing Doctor Hooper has any more bearing than it does."

John looks peeved for a moment, his arms crossed, as he looks straight ahead. "You skipped Irene Adler," he says pleased.

Sherlock scowls at him. "Meaning?" he says with an edge to his voice.

"No, _nothing_. I just find it funny, that's all," says John chuckling.

Sherlock just eyes him apprehensively. "I was gone three weeks. Those pictures did come from somewhere you know. You were pretty _close_ in those," adds John biting his lip down, trying to hide his smile.

Sherlock snorts derisively. "Doctor Hooper might have interest for me, but I have certainly no interest for her." John Watson just smiles knowingly.

"What?" says Sherlock startled at his friend's smugness.

"If you haven't caught on yet, I am definitively not going to say it," says John Watson grinning.


	5. Remember your lines

**Putting this out before bedtime. I LOVE your comments, I really do, and I love how several of you are actually trying to figure it out. Nice. I'm quite amused, be aware though, I _am_ slightly evil. I'd also love to add that if I were to cast the mother, my absolute dream woman - would be Helen Mirren. Without a doubt. On to the story!**

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><p><strong>5: Remember your lines<strong>

DI Greg Lestrade 42, how long have you known Sherlock Holmes? "Must be around seven years now." Has he always been like this? "_Yes_- wait - like what?" Has he always avoided talking about his personal life? "Well, I don't think anyone wants to talk about their personal life, especially when it gets broadcast to everyone." He still agreed to this. "Yes, well he had to more or less, didn't he?" He wouldn't have otherwise then? "Of all the people I know I'm quite certain that Sherlock Holmes doesn't want to be in public eye. Especially if he wants to keep doing his job." Why are _you_ helping us, then? He grins. "All publicity is good publicity," So you don't think this diminishes your work? "No, I hope people see that what we do is important." The main focus is Sherlock Holmes though. "I hope people see what _he_ does is important then, are we done?" he says through gritted teeth.

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><p><em><em><em>10 JULY, 09:34<em>__

Molly Hooper sits in what was told to be the tearoom. She didn't know that people had tearooms. She had almost refused to sit down on the luxurious looking chairs, which were extremely decadent to the degree that she felt she sullied them by just sitting there. She also felt like she was visiting the Queen, as _the butler_ had gestured her into the room, and firmly shut the doors after her.

At one point she was genuinely worried she was locked in, her face lighting up in alarm, before she realized that would be absolutely mental, and settled down on the white cream lounger with the envelope in her hand. On the small mahogany table was a beautiful porcelain tea set, which despite its rich quality looked quite modern. The place itself was a blend of modern and old. A Picasso hung on the wall, there were old Victorian furniture mixed with objects that looked like it belonged to the Ming Dynasty, besides some minimalistic furniture. Nervous didn't cover Molly Hooper's emotions at the moment, as she heard a set of doors opening up to her left, and stared as Mrs Holmes walked into the room with a cigarette in one hand looking at her daintily.

"I hope you don't mind," she says eyeing the cigarette, which causes Molly to shake her head, as the woman seats herself across her dropping ashes into a crystal ashtray.

"I hope work wasn't dreadfully difficult today, I sorted it with my son Mycroft, so it wouldn't be," she says with a smile, eyeing Molly's attire.

Molly did indeed feel like a child compared to this slender woman's apparel. A white short-armed top and a pair of white pants she bore, spotless and bright, looking quite regal there she sat smirking. Molly sat looking absolutely out of place with her flaming red cardigan and grey trousers.

"Mrs Holmes, I am not here to take you up on your offer," says Molly after a while of thinking.

Mrs Holmes just smiles.

"_Of course not_, I highly doubted that. I can see that you're uneasy. That article must have really put you off," she says, before finishing her cigarette with a flourish.

"Good, we agree, then," says Molly laughing a little.

Mrs Holmes eyes her knowingly.

"I wouldn't say that dear," she says.

Molly's laughter gets caught in her throat.

"Sorry?"

"Yes, well as much as I don't like the idea of my children on the front page. I did indeed send the ring as a gesture."

"So _it_ was you?"

"You were expecting _someone _else?"

At this Molly opens her mouth several times, before finally shutting it, uneasily clutching on the envelope "I think you should take it back, though," she says putting it on the table besides the tray.

Mrs Holmes just eyes it, before taking out another cigarette from a silver box on the table. She lights it with a silver cigarette lighter she's got in one hand, all while eyeing Molly looking quite entertained.

"Have you talked to your mother?" she asks arching a brow.

Molly just sits there uneasily "No."

"Good. She's here if you want to."

"She's _here_?"

"Yes," says Mrs Holmes gingerly. Molly just sits there with raised brows astonished. She doesn't quite know what to say, as the woman pours her a cup of tea, which she receives quietly staring at the pretty cup.

"Mrs Holmes – _why_ am I here exactly?" she says lifting her head to look at the woman, a look of confusion on her face.

Mrs Holmes grins, laughing a bit which makes Molly feel even more nervous. "Finally getting to the point dear. I bet I'll like you," she says.

_FIVE HOURS LATER - ___10 JULY, 13:04____

They finally arrive, car parked in front of _the mansion_, which causes John Watson to gape quite a while, as he still clutches his phone in one hand.

"This was your child-hood-home, then. Not the sort of place you expect kids to be running about, no. More like getting lost in. _This_ is where you grew up, yet you had to share your flat with me," he says all astonishment, as Sherlock just starts striding up the stone-steps, passing the many perfectly attended to bushes or flowers.

There was a gazebo seen in the distance; the grounds were covered with white pearly pebbles – not your regular gravel, which John just looked at it in sheer bafflement – passing a small fountain even.

The road they took to the place itself was amazingly long, and apparently a part of _the estate_, which was a word John Watson, had not entirely believed at first. Seeing the now castle-like building he was quite certain that it fit, especially when they walked towards the front door – Sherlock had intended to barge in apparently, but a butler opened the door – as if he'd predicted this move already. Sherlock strode ahead, as John followed at a quick pace behind him eyeing the grey-haired butler, who soon disappeared.

"You've got _help_," says John "No wonder you need me to get you things."

Sherlock just eyes him exasperated, while they walk through long hallways, up stairs, past famous paintings ("Is that?"- "Yes."), arriving in the end at what seems to be an office. John just stares in admiration at everything, before his eyes land on a woman sitting by the desk.

"Mother," says Sherlock sounding a little bit breathless eyeing her.

Mrs Holmes stands up from behind the desk, gives him a couple of pecks on each cheek, before looking at John with a delighted expression on her face, "_John Watson_ – finally we meet – I've been trying to schedule a meeting for ages. I'm _very_ fond of that blog of yours, _really_, I am. It's a quick insight into my sons life, and definitively better than _tobacco ash_," she says while shaking his hand, at which John looks at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes, before catching his mother's attention.

"Mother, _where_ is Doctor Hooper?" he asks.

"Molly, _oh_, she's here," she says with a smile taking a cigarette from a box on the desk, which Sherlock grabs flinging it aside.

"You quit," he says with knitted brows.

"I am old enough to begin again," she says on the way to seize another, causing Sherlock to snap the box shut.

"Where is she?" he says seriously making her look at him with sheer glee.

"I think we can get to that business_ later_, don't you? There's much more amusing things to talk about –howis life, darling?" she says seating herself in a leather sofa, eyeing her son expectantly.

John settles himself down immediately grinning broadly. Sherlock just looks disgruntled at his mother, as he's still standing by the desk, before imperiously sitting down besides John.

"He's never been one for phoning, this one. Mycroft does that _a lot_. I always know his doings, more or less, but Sherlock's never been one for keeping in touch," she adds in his silence. John perches his lips, as the corners of his mouth keep tugging upwards. Sherlock looks puce.

"I'm not getting any younger, you know, but I suppose young people take such delight in teasing us elderly folk with that sort of behaviour, don't you think John?" she says grinning at him.

"Yes, I suppose so," he says eyeing his friend anxiously.

"Mother," Sherlock only says with the most agitated of expressions.

"Can't we talk for a few minutes? She's already been here for some hours, I think she can stand not being clustered with you at the moment," says Mrs Holmes furrowing her brows.

"What is this about?" says Sherlock sighing.

"I'm dying Sherlock," she says with saddest of expressions.

John makes a grimace of surprise, as Sherlock just says "_Mother," _with the sternest of expressions, causing John to raise brows at his friend.

"Fine, _one_ day I'll die. You must let a woman be dramatic once in a while. Life gets frightfully dull otherwise."

"Mother!" he snaps.

She snorts, before taking out a cigarette from another box on a small table besides her. John Watson eyes this movement, as Sherlock reaches out for it, but she says, "I _won't_ talk if you take it." He looks adamant on grabbing it, but reluctantly leans back in the sofa instead. She lights it up, looking at him with those steely blue eyes of hers, before saying, "I met with Molly Hooper, three days ago, but I suppose she didn't inform you of that."

Sherlock just looks at his mother questioningly, John's eyes wander, and his eyes fall upon a picture, which is most definitively – "Is that you?" he says "And Mycroft? You both look _miserable_."

Mrs Holmes looks fondly at John, before grabbing for the silver picture frame herself, holding it up for him to see – smoke crashing into their faces, Sherlock looks moved even a little by the grey smoke.

"Oh, it was a bad day, a very bad one. Sherlock had_ apparently _gotten into a bit of ruckus with some boys at his school. Just returned from boarding school, and of course family portraits were on the same day _as always_. Mycroft wasn't very pleased with his little brother, no."

"Apparently? He didn't-," says John half-gaping.

"Beat himself up to avoid the picture? _Oh yes_," she says cheekily looking at her son in an odd admiring fashion.

"Not much has changed, then," says John his eyes on the curly-haired beaten frowning boy in the picture, before looking at the same scowling man besides him.

Mrs Holmes places the picture frame back, before taking a deep drag from her cigarette "_Back_ to my story then?" she says eyeing them both. John just nods expectantly, while Sherlock sits with his palms pressed together, apparently deep in thought.

"Mother, is this going to be an evening filled with theatricals then?" asks Sherlock who gets out of his stupor and looks if not a bit bored.

A look his mother obviously does not take lightly pursing her lips all of a sudden looking quite austere, her warm charming behaviour vanishing right away.

"Sherlock, it might have escaped your notice, but I am not _unaware_. I am in fact your mother, and if you let me be more involved in your life I wouldn't have been required to take _steps_."

"You didn't seem as _keen_ before," he spits out, looking with distain at his mother, causing John to awkwardly shift in the sofa besides him, an agonized expression on his face.

"Do you have any intentions with Molly Hooper then?" she asks, a small smile playing on her lips. John blanches. Sherlock keeps his annoyed countenance.

"Intentions – _why_ should I have any intentions?" he says quirking a brow at her. His mother just looks at him with a great deal of mirth.

"John – what is _your_ opinion?" she asks John who looks at Sherlock confused.

"Sorry?" says John baffled.

"I think you better not ask him mother. He's distracted," says Sherlock smiling.

Mrs Holmes looks with interest on John.

"Oh, _what_ is it?" she asks easily preoccupied, as John looks a bit flushed.

"My wife Mary, _well_, she might be – pregnant, actually," says John awkwardly eyeing Sherlock, who just keeps an eye on his mother.

"Really_, is_ she now?" she says with certain delight, her face crinkling up in a huge smile.

"Oh," says John, "Speak of the devil," he adds grinning, before looking at the vibrating phone in his hand, walking off to the window while pressing the phone to his ear, "_Hi_, so, yeah, ok, _really_? Oh, ok. Right. _Well_, it's no – yeah – love you too." John Watson's expression is that of genuine confusion, eying his friend, bewildered, biting his lip, before saying very carefully "_Sherlock _– Mary took a test, and she'snot pregnant. She took _several_ actually, and each showed negative."

"Of course she isn't," says Sherlock with amusement. "John, I am _good_, but there are some things that are difficult for even the trained eye to observe, especially that early in the game."

John just looks with utter disgust at his friend.

"Why the_ hell_ did you do that for?"

"I'm sorry John. I had sort of hoped your reaction would be a negative one. At least you know how you feel about the subject if that comforts you," says Sherlock, his eyes still fixated on his mothers face. "_Now_ mother, that was the first moment you gave a _genuine_ smile. I had hoped it wasn't something like that, but you cannot seriously expect me to procure a child for your own happiness? I suggest adoption in the most extreme cases as this or _ask Mycroft_," he says narrowing his eyes, before standing up from the sofa.

"Darling, you know why Mycroft surrounds himself with a female-only-staff. It's not his jurisdiction really. As for you -_ you_ did have me fooled for some moments," she says eyeing John, who raises his brows about to protest. "Of course I was proven wrong in _that_."

John raises his hands up in confusion. "Could _someone_ please tell me what's going on?"

"Mother wants grandchildren John," says Sherlock "_Do keep up_. There's a reason she was so absolutely delighted on the prospect of Mary being pregnant."

"So – _you lied to me_ – _just_ to get a proper reaction from your mother?" says John mouth half-open, looking albeit a bit tired of his friend's antics, and he'd just returned.

"All a part of the plan," he says smugly, giving his mother a brief nod, seeming intent to leave. Mrs Holmes just leans back in the sofa, eyes still trained on her son, as he's about to walk out of the door quite confident, but he stops up a moment.

He shuts his eyes for a second, a look of dread on his face, before turning swiftly around "You know something," he says through gritted teeth.

"Know _what_? I know absolutely nothing, but I suggest you stay for dinner though. Molly and her mother will both be here. You probably feel peckish John ("Yes, actually) – he doesn't feed you properly, _I am sure_, ("Quite right,")" she says standing up from the sofa taking John by the arm, and walking him along past Sherlock out of the office.

Sherlock Holmes stands sullen alone, before striding after them.


	6. First Act

**Thank you all for the comments, the favorites and the story alert.**

**Makes me feel all bubbly inside knowing that you find this fun!**

**Hopefully I'll continue crafting it in such a way, as making it readable.**

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><p><strong>6: First Act - <strong>_**That's why the lady is a tramp**_

Martha Hudson 75 – You are his landlady, is he a difficult tenant? "He _does_ test my nerves some times." How so? "It's the flat-out mess, shooting's in my wall, the ruckus during the night with that ruddy violin of course – then his fridge. His fridge is filled with his odds experiments and some body parts – which_ I_ have to clean up," I thought you weren't his housekeeper. "I'm not," she says crossly into the camera. Where does he get those body-parts anyway? "Molly Hooper of course." She's his friend then? "I would say that, yes. A _very_ nice girl." Are they? "Oh _no_." Why not? She looks into the camera knowingly.

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><p><em>10 JULY, 17:04<em>

The dining room was the most luxurious room, with its deep blue tapestry, and a royal theme with tall chairs and a long table. John Watson settled himself quite chuffed, it seemed, looking at the wonderful dishes that already had been put out. If the Holmes' estate did indeed have many servants, they were good at hiding it, and Mrs Holmes just gestured to Sherlock Holmes as to where he was to sit. She tutted quite disapprovingly when he tried to seat himself somewhere else, than where she requested. It was obvious that she had her reasons. He settled himself disgruntled where she_ pleasantly _asked him to sit. John just raised his brows at the scene, soon forwarding his attention to the opening doors, which revealed a robust looking woman with faded yellow hair. She was wearing a red frock, and quite the demanding shade of scarlet on her lips. Both Sherlock and John automatically eyed each other at this point. One didn't need to deduce anything really about this woman – then appeared the pleasant shape of Molly Hooper, who was dressed in a black lace slip dress – quite unlike her previous attire. She and Mrs Hooper had obviously dressed for the occasion, but Sherlock knew the dress was new – and his mother's taste. From Mrs Holmes' expression it was evident that this was something she had indeed planned. John's head turned directly to Sherlock, who had a look of surprise on his face, before returning to the same look he'd been keeping since they arrived – a grim countenance indeed.

"Molly," he said making a jerk of his head, standing up rigid as a board, causing John to gape at him, before hurriedly recovering himself by standing up too.

Molly just gave an uneasy smile, she had of course intention of seating herself next to John, but Mrs Hooper just cried out "Oh, sit besides Sherlock sweetie."

The displeasure was imminent on Molly's face; she gave a deep breath, before sitting down besides him reluctantly. John bit back the laugh that hit him, before directing his attention to Mrs Hooper, who full on shook his hand, and grinned at him cheekily.

"Alice Hooper, call me Alice," she says ("_John_, John Watson,"), before directing her full attention to Sherlock "We don't need no introduction I think."

All heads turned in the direction of Sherlock, except Molly who seemed quite interested in her crystal goblet.

"Sorry?" he says quirking a brow at the woman, who soon sits besides John, causing John to sit down at last. Sherlock still stood questioningly, before slowly seating himself.

Mrs Hooper just grins at him, before saying "We've spoken on the phone."

John looks in surprise at Sherlock who furrows his brows.

Molly looks up from the goblet biting her lip.

"I don't remember that," he says, looking at her doubtfully.

Mrs Hooper winks at him "It was ages ago - You seemed to be needing a phone, so you grabbed my daughters. Just a few quick words, before you hung up on me. I was pretty miffed."

"Knowing Sherlock it was probably important, Alice," says Mrs Holmes with a delicate smile.

"Oh, I know _Lizzie_. That's what _I_ thought until Molly told me why," says Mrs Hooper, who's daughter proceeds to say, "Mum_."_

Mrs Hooper just gives a tiny hearty laugh, before saying "Sorry, I don't think anyone's going to be surprised that he needed a cup of coffee."

Molly gave a big sigh, "Thanks mum," she muttered.

"He never did like sharing the stage," says Mrs Holmes with a big grin, which caused her and Mrs Hooper to giggle. The two adults seated right besides each other, seemed to shrink slightly in their chairs, while John leaned forward in his chair beaming at both women.

"I _bet_ you've got some stories," he says boldly, causing Sherlock to grimace, and Molly to stare at him intently.

He had to admit that he did wonder how Molly had been growing up, and even more so how Sherlock had been. Just knowing that he'd beaten himself up to avoid a portrait - wasn't enough for him at the moment.

"There are _plenty_ to go through. Waste not though, I think we should eat, shouldn't we?" says Mrs Holmes, and soon enough John takes a bit of everything.

Molly awkwardly grabs for some rolls of bread out of her reach accidentally grazing Sherlock's hand - he ends up handing the basket to her quietly. John watches this move in-between his chewing, smiling to himself, as his friend silently puts food on his own platter. There was a certain enthusiasm in this action, but it was apparent that Sherlock did not want to give away that he was enjoying himself in any manner. Molly however seemed to be chewing uneasily on her food, small sighs in between, as wine got poured in their goblets by the butler. Sherlock locked eyes with the butler, giving him a small nod, which got returned with a smile.

"So John, I hear you've just gotten back from your honeymoon – how does it feel?" asks Mrs Hooper, taking a break in her eating, elbows on the table.

John's about to open his mouth to answer, when Sherlock says without missing a beat "Mrs Hooper, _mother_ - you might want to answer me and probably Doctor Hooper's questions."

The two women eye each other, as Molly utters the unmistakably clear "No, I'm _fine_ actually – John – _how_ was your honeymoon with Mary? Everything lovely in Rome?"

Sherlock looks at her in surprise, wrinkles in his brows, before looking at his mother who lifts her glass up at him confidently. John blinks several times, his fork in a broccoli, as he eyes mouth half-open at the scene laid out before him. All three women's attention is trained on him.

"It _was - _good," he says putting down his fork, raising a brow at Sherlock who just frowned. "We got to see some sights, and – _well_ – Rome, so - _why_ exactly are you _fine_, Molly?" Molly looks sheepishly at John.

_10 JULY, 10:04_

Molly Hooper waits expectantly, as Mrs Holmes just sits quietly observing her. There's a knock, and soon the door in front of them opens – the butler enters wielding a laptop in his hands. The laptop looks quite out of place in the room, and Molly just stares at the butler who places it gingerly on the table, besides the tea tray. If anything screamed more out of place than her it was that.

"Thank you Geoffrey," she says, as the butler bows out of the room, and disappears with a flourish.

Molly purses her lips, and stares at the laptop.

"I'll be needing this, you see. I've expected some sort of announcement on Doctor Watson's blog," she says tapping her fingers gently on it, before opening it. "Oh, and_there_ it is," turning the laptop around so Molly can see.

"_Is that_?" she starts gaping a bit, as her eyes read the screen.

"Yes, John Watson has updated his blog confirming the engagement. _Quite_ odd, isn't it – maybe a joke on his side, possibly? I must say that the manner it's written in is quite unusual to his style, don't you?"

Molly furrowed her brows, as she mouthed the words on the screen, before leaning back, doubt written on her expression.

"I don't think this means anything. Probably some plan of his?" she says crossing her arms.

She's felt the effects of his plans, before and knew he would often not consult with her before executing any of it. This was the first one where she wished he had consulted with her first.

"You're probably right," says Mrs Holmes turning the laptop around, before imposingly typing a little bit, revolving the laptop yet again to Molly. "Here is _his _entry though – on his own blog this time around."

"Mrs Holmes – _what_ are you trying to prove here?"

"I just find it quite entertaining - that my son – who dictates to his friend a long almost mournful epitaph about being engaged to you, proceeds to write a more remarkable one on his own blog."

"It doesn't sound too optimistic_ to me _to be honest," Molly says doubtfully.

"Yes, but what is the point of putting it out?"

"It could be John Watson."

"Yes, well I don't think John Watson uses words as_ enthralling _really," says Mrs Holmes smugly.

Molly reads the entry again, trying to see what Mrs Holmes was seeing, but didn't find any of it spectacularly out of character. He had obviously written it hurriedly, and maybe he hadn't even written it.

"You said that Sherlock dictated to John _his_ entry. There should be some words in _there_ that don't fit too."

"Oh _yes_, but even though – you can see that_ he's_ straying and not trying to write it word for word. My own son, when he writes his own entry, makes it a bit more_revealing_."

Molly raises brows at this, and starts to properly understand the woman's intentions. Though she does not smile, or laugh at the idea, especially not when it is practically forced on her.

"Mrs Holmes he isn't – _no_ – he's not," says Molly almost irritated at the woman.

"Your mother implied that something had happened between you two."

"What happened? Nothing has happened. He has _barely_ spent any time with me!"

"Except these three weeks which is peculiar - Since he seemed to be almost_ avoiding_ you ever since you helped him. Don't you find it unusual – even for him?"

"You _know_ about that?" asks Molly aghast shifting in her chair.

"I am his mother, _of course_ I know," she says smugly.

Molly snorts.

"Well – I _helped _him, yes. I helped him now too, but nothing happened. Mum's just assuming things –_ you_ didn't help her with those newspapers – did you?"

"Oh, _no_, I found that a terribly bad idea to be honest, as I've said I _don't _like my children on the front page."

"Where is my mother then?"

"Of course, you probably want to speak with her," says Mrs Holmes, as Molly stands up from her chair. "She'll be here in about a minute. Not to worry."

We return to Molly Hooper at the dinner table, who gives the gentlest of smiles, before saying "Why wouldn't I be?" completely ignoring the man to her right, for reasons the flush in her face could answer to.

John's eyes shift between the pair of them.

"Have I_ missed _something?" he asks directing his attention to Mrs Holmes and Mrs Hooper, who both laugh.

"You did read the papers?" says Mrs Hooper brightly. John hears a slapping sound, and finds Molly with her head in her hands.

"It was difficult not to notice, _yes_ - _which_ is why we're here," says John eyeing Sherlock who sits with perched lips. He seems to be lost in thought. "I hope_."_

"I must say - if you were so abjectly against the whole thing – _why_ on earth would you announce it on your blog?" asked Mrs Holmes.

"Itriedto stop him," says John grinning, despite himself. Honestly, he could have tried harder – he did get a bit of sadistic pleasure of seeing how it would unfold.

"I assumed it would be_ difficult_ to get a hold of you mother," says Sherlock grimly.

Mrs Holmes raises her brows at him.

"I've always been a _ring_ away," she says with a smirk.

Molly spits out some of her wine, but quickly recovers – before emptying her glass – causing Sherlock to stare, before directing his attention to Mrs Holmes.

"_Mother_, I just hope this ends here. There should not be any more mischiefs."

He turns to Mrs Hooper.

"I do hope for your daughter's sake that you retract any statement made in public, so there won't be any more embarrassment. Both me and John will make it up as some _absurd_ joke on both our sides, and it will quietly go away."

"_Absurd joke_? Well _I _never – the nerve of – _absurd_ – is the idea of my daughter with you so _ridiculous_?" says Mrs Hooper quite heatedly.

Both Mrs Holmes and Molly look uneasy.

Sherlock frowns.

"Mrs Hooper, I am just saying that the scenario is itself quite unlikely."

"_Unlikely_?" she repeats.

"Oh god," mutters Molly, who soon grabs for the wine bottle on the table, at which John almost bursts out laughing.

"_You_ are the one who put us into this situation in the first place – which is complete fiction - created by _yours truly_ for some merciless reason – causing your daughter and me to be the_ but_ in everyone's joke. I'm sorry Mrs Hooper, if I _offend_ you, but I do not truly think you are the one who should be offended."

At this, Mrs Hooper's face crinkles up, before she gives a big booming laugh.

This was clearly not the reaction Sherlock waited for, as he dramatically stood up, napkin thrown on his plate.

"I'm_ so_ sorry silly. Oh, you're a real riot. Getting all high and mighty. I have never seen anyone so cross in my life. _Well_, except Molly though – she wasn't a right laugh when she saw me earlier. I'm sorry if our joke messed with everything. I expect your girlfriend must be upset."

At which Sherlock mouths "_girlfriend_" looking riled, as John raises his shoulders, and Molly just keeps drinking wine.

"I wouldn't say it was _our _joke," says Mrs Holmes to Mrs Hooper.

"Quite right, I didn't really expect_ so_ much interest really, but apparently despite that _telenova_ everyone still wants a small piece of you. They gave me quite the sum," says Mrs Hooper chuckling.

Sherlock's face is unreadable, as John grimaces, before putting his napkin aside.

"_John_ – we're leaving," says Sherlock. He had expected that.

"Yes, right, thanks for the fo-," _then the lights go out._

They are in absolute darkness it seems, no light, and no shine from under the doors. There is some nervous laughter, as glasses get knocked over.

John stands up "What's_ going on_?"

"Oh, it's the electricity. They've probably hit the wires again," says Mrs Holmes who doesn't move from her seat at all, sipping from her glass in the darkness.

The butler soon appears bearing a three-branched candleholder in his hand lighting up the place, which he places on the dining table. He addresses himself to Mrs Holmes in the most bored of tones - "Madam, it _seems_ that the electricity has gone out again. I would call for Reginald, but he left with the car as you had requested."

"Geoffrey – _what_ car?" says Sherlock in the tensest of tones.

Geoffrey, the butler, with his lion-like appearance says with a small hint of amusement "Yours young master."


	7. Intermission

**I felt like I used an age on this chapter, that is what happens when you're swamped with work the entire weekend. Awfully difficult to write a chapter then, despite it already being planned out mentally. Thank you for the wonderful comments, do keep them coming - I'd like to know if I am keeping up to standards. Thank you for the favorites and story-alerts - makes me quite chuffed, I swear!**

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><p><strong>7: Intermission: <strong>_Oh it's witchcraft_

Dear viewer - you as us - are probably wondering how Sherlock Holmes the city's infamous sleuth_ deduces_ – how does the mighty detective pull off managing all these incredibly complex cases? "I observe," he says. He observes the details on your persona, which makes it easy for him to deduce what sort of underwear you are wearing "Why would I want to do that?" Of course he doesn't understand human nature, despite being a sexy detective. "I _do_," he says rather irritated into the camera. John Watson stands in the background smirking. He might be a great detective, but he seems rather obtuse? "_Obtuse_ – this is ridiculous," he spits. Close-up on his face "I do not have time for this. This is a crime scene treat it as thus," he says deadpanned into the camera, while standing by the corpse of a man.

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><p><em>10 JULY, 18:15<em>

John Watson looked on, biting his lip, as his friend Sherlock Holmes was darting ahead of him carrying a flashlight. They weren't looking for a mystical hound, there was no mist or corpse or full-on-vengeful man._ No_, this was the search for the rather ordinarily dull fuse box, which did not work, and which Sherlock was certain had been tampered with ("We have _no_ lights. We have _no_ signal. We have _no_ car. Was this your idea of a_ fun_ evening mother?").

John admitted that it was all a _great coincidence_, especially deeming the fact that Mrs Holmes'**one** car was in the shop, and none of the mobile phones worked anymore(Mrs Holmes also only used the landline) - was it masterfully planned by Sherlock's mother ("How could she_ fix _the signal though?" "Mycroft" "I don't think Mycroft would –_ OK_ – maybe you're right, then.")? John didn't know, but he was more interested in staying – a thing he did not try to admit to his friend. To be honest he'd never seen his friend so irrational, except when under the persuasion of drugs ("We couldn't leave anyway," "Why is that?" "You've been drinking." "Not _enough_."). John Watson did not feel that the Holmes' estate was a place of torture either - they were well catered, and the bedrooms were astonishingly beautiful ("Not the worst sleep-over ever.").

Sherlock however was in distress, wandering in the dark basement convinced that his mother had orchestrated the situation. "So, what if it_ hasn't_ been tampered with?" John asks furrows in his brows, as he's trying to understand why his friend is so reluctant to stay. Molly Hooper herself had disappeared quite quickly, as Sherlock had an argument with Mrs Holmes, which was fairly one-sided ("Mother, I am_ not_ staying" "Take the bike, then, it's a lovely cloudy evening. I think you'd enjoy the fresh air.") "It has been," Sherlock just says his expression in earnest, yet John couldn't but feel that for once the detective would not find an easy solution to this one problem this night – despite his overbearing confidence.

They'd been building according to Mrs Holmes in the nearby area for some time, causing the occasional disorder to the electricity, which was dealt with candles and the fireplaces being lit.

"Yes, in the _evening_ of course," Sherlock almost spits out; while John Watson walks behind him mouth pursed together to avoid the smile threating to burst out. "Mother _conveniently_ sends our only vehicle away, with the driver to be filled with fuel. Said driver won't show up before tomorrow, because mother would only ring him if we needed the car tonight."

"You should never have left the keys in the car," says John carefully, as they walk past several doors, looking in once in a while. Sherlock just turns around glaring at John, who ends up lighting the flashlight in his face "Really, Sherlock, I am _not_ your mother. Don't fight with me about this. You're the one who got yourself into this mess."

"_I_ got – myself - into this mess – I? _John_, they are deliberately trying to make us stay the night," says Sherlock looking distraught. Words accentuated, as if his mother could even compare to Moriarty's madness.

"It's _one_ night. We're not going to stay a week - it isn't like they are torturing us with their _gourmet-cooked_ meals, and we can't get another car in here either, due to-,"

"No _signal_, don't remind me," says Sherlock shutting his eyes for a moment looking severely frantic, before his flashlight ends up on the fuse box.

He grins devilishly, John gives a sigh of relief - at least they didn't have to spend the entire night in the cold basement. The detective stands with his back to his friend muttering under his breath, before sweeping his hand through his hair – clearly agitated.

"_It looks fine_," he says, "No _tampering_ to be seen."

"Your mother wastelling the truth then," John says with a snort.

"They've probably worked it out with the electrical company," he mumbles handing his flashlight to John, who takes it disgruntled, as Sherlock presses his palms together thinking.

"Sherlock, you _are_ hearing yourself right?"

"_Shut up_, I'm thinking," he just says, before opening his eyes at whatever brilliant conclusion he'd come up with "_You_ can take the bike."

"Sorry?" says John in disbelief.

"Take the bike - out of the estate - then when you get a signal - call for a taxi," says Sherlock grinning at the idea.

"No."

"John."

"_No_, Sherlock."

"_John_."

John Watson just looks at his friend with the most irritated of expressions, hands him the flashlight, before storming off irritated.

_10 JULY, 18:45_

Molly Hooper had slipped off, clutching quite the array of cigarettes, which she stuffed in her purse, before walking on the grounds admiring the starry skies, while being a bit _rebellious_. This was finally a moment to reflect, to think, to possibly get visibly angry, as she'd been keeping it in. Did she smoke? Not at all, not once in her youth, and it was by odd circumstances that she found herself wanting one. The whole thing was a surreal show she was just watching in her head. _His_ mother wanted her to procure her grandchildren, her_ own_ mother saying they were engaged to tabloids alike, his mother also implying – _whatever_ she was implying. She did not believe it for a second, which was why she was clenching a cigarette in her hand for the first time. She was 33 years old, finally rebelling by trying to light herself a cigarette. Of course it was a cigarette stolen from one of the many silver boxes at the Holmes' estate, but at this point she'd given up caring. The woman had presented her with a dress after all ("You'll look lovely my dear"), and there she was in fancy attire with stolen cigarettes. She wasn't quite sure what she was going to think about, the glasses of wine had made many a thought a bit more hazy, which she was glad for.

Of course after the fourth cigarette, the rain started to pour down.

She ran with her high heels treading into the grass, before slipping under the gazebo nearby. She was just a bit wet fortunately, as it poured heavily down from the heavens. There she settled herself on the white bench luckily situated in the gazebo. She was laughing to herself, cigarette in hand, as she thought she saw someone biking in the distance – the wine was playing tricks with her mind obviously. When she narrowed her eyes a bit, suddenly turning wide-eyed - that it was indeed not a mirage during the wet evening. No, indeed this was Sherlock Holmes _on a bike._

It was the oddest of dreamlike circumstances she'd ever come over (excluding the entire scenario at dinner of course), and she'd planned his suicide. The great detective was sitting on a bike with the straightest back she'd ever seen. He seemed quite unnatural, and seemed to give up the project entirely when he spotted the gazebo, which he disappeared underneath.

He shook his sodden hair, his great coat obviously soaked in water, and looked up rather disgruntled, raising his brows as he realized she was there "_Molly_," he breathed rather uncharacteristically, before recovering staring at the cigarette in her hand, "You're smoking Doctor Hooper. You don't smoke," he says with that drawl of his.

She bites her lip, trying to contain the smile creeping onto her face, before saying "You were _riding_ a bike."

"Yes, a ordinary healthy routine," he says scowling at her, before seating himself besides her, shrugging off his coat.

"In the middle of the night, while it's raining – _no_. You weren't actually going home on _that_?" she says with doubt etched on her face on the idea - that the one great detective had been reduced to this illogical _boy_.

"_No_," he exclaims disgruntled.

She eyed him amused against her better judgement, "So what were you exactly doing, then?"

"I was tryingto get a signal," he says grimly, which causes Molly to laugh.

"You're not serious?" she says stopping at his expression, but still grinning. He furrows his brows at her, suddenly sitting more imposingly on the bench, raising a brow at her cigarette. She just scrunches her face at him, before blowing smoke in his face, which she - "Oh God, sorry." He snorts at her apology.

"I think I can handle a little smoke," he says amused.

"Yes, I know," she says laughing weakly.

"You aren't doing it right anyway," he says, eyes fixed on the mansion.

She turns her head at him in surprise. This was the first time since the three weeks that they'd spoken. When they'd last seen each other, it had not ended on equal terms. "Doing it right? How can I be doing it _wrong_?" she asks, looking at her cigarette in astonishment.

He puts out his palm while saying "Give it to me."

"No," she says pulling it closer to her, and he gives her that look. _The look_ she knows she would agree immediately to in other circumstances, especially with those dark curls being so drenched.

"You aren't inhaling," he says pulling his palm back.

She laughs, "Show me, then," she says raising brows at him.

"You weren't willing to give me yours, but you are willing to give me a _new _one Doctor Hooper?" he says interested.

"Well, this one is _mine,_" she says with a grin, cigarette in the corner of her mouth, as she fishes for a new one in her purse.

"Are those my mothers?" he asks. She looks up at him with a guilty expression "I'll take _five_," he adds with his palm out again.

"I'm only giving you _one_, you've quit. I know about the nicotine patches," she says knowingly.

"You would, it was _your_ idea," he says, as she hands him the cigarette, before lighting it up for him.

She grins despite herself - she is supposed to be angry with him.

"You usually _never_ listen to me, or anyone," she says remembering when she had suggested him the healthier option years ago.

"You'd be surprised," he just says, before saying "Pay attention Doctor Hooper. This is a valuable lesson."

"I don't know if I want to learn how to though," she says nervously.

He looks at her in general disbelief; she glares at him, before putting the cigarette to her lips mimicking him.

"Now I want you to take a deep breath to really savour the feeling, take it down to your lungs, and then let it out again."

He shows her this; long fingers clenched around the cigarette perched on his lips inhaling deeply, before he releases a long waft of smoke from his nostrils looking quite calm. She takes a deep breath, feels the bitter sensation cling to her throat tickling, before coughing quite roughly into her hand.

"GOD, that's awful – why_ would _anyone want to do that?" she exclaims, throwing her cigarette away.

"Exactly. Give me the rest of your cigarettes," he says smirking, obviously pleased that a cigarette is in his hands.

She just frowns at him, clutching her purse shut, and saying "No, I am not giving it to you."

"It is_ my_ mothers," he says still smoking, at which she grabs his cigarette and throws it aside.

He looks struck by this, an angry expression on his face, as he stares on the cigarette, which she snubs under her heel.

"At this point I think we can safely say that whatever is yours is _mine_," she says exasperated that she is stuck under the gazebo with him.

He glowers at her, there's a pause, before -

"Whydidn't you tell me that you had a visit from my mother?" he asks her.

She frowns standing up from the bench, before addressing him, "We had an argument. I was not speaking with you, remember?" she says with crossed arms.

He doesn't say anything, sitting there in silence, as she shuffles awkwardly with her feet – almost running headfirst into the pouring rain.

"They have convinced everyone that something happened," he says after a while – not answering her question.

"Everyone? I wouldn't say John was _everyone_," Molly says sceptically.

"The rest will follow," he scoffs.

"Of all the rumours circulating about you, I think you should be happy about_ this_ one," says Molly seating herself down besides him again.

"There are more?" he says in general disbelief.

She laughs.

"You really don't know?" she says quirking a brow at him.

"I have never been interested in _mindless_ gossip," he says disdainfully.

"Yes, well, then you shouldn't have cared about this one. This was just a column. Nothing big - just a small thing, and now of course you've gone and confirmed it."

He looks at her with what seems to be a guilty expression.

"Don't give me that," the look disappears "I know that look too well. Anyway - we'll just have to say it was a joke, like you said, and pretend nothing happened."

"Unless there's _more_," he says.

"I don't think there can be any _more_."

"This is my mother, there's _always_ more," he says sounding dreadfully serious.

"Our mothers really - you were on a bike, and I was smoking cigarettes," she says grinning.

"You _weren't_ smoking cigarettes."

"Just shut up, will you," she says more amused than annoyed.

He looks at her in wonder, catches her shivering, and puts his coat around her shoulders. She looks at him in awe, but says nothing.

"I am sorry," he says delicately, as she clutches his coat to herself.

He hears her sigh, looking quite frustrated, about to open her mouth – but they hear the unexpected clearing of someone's throat, and find the butler Geoffrey staring at them. He is holding in his hands two umbrellas.

"Master and Miss - I was notified of your position, and thought you might need this. I will accompany one of you back," he says pleasantly.

Sherlock is caught by surprise, when Molly shakes off his coat, "I'll take that_ one_. You can escort Mr Holmes to the mansion," she says walking away umbrella in hand, leaving Sherlock Holmes with a mystified expression on his face.


	8. Second Act

**Putting it out here on the demand of _Nocturnias_, I aim to please. ****Thank you for the reviews and everything! They are absolutely wonderful, and make me well-pleased. Hopefully this will soothe your agony for the meanwhile - I do think it won't be long before next chapter, depends if my muse is high-spirited enough and allows me to write the already-planned-pages.**

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><p><strong>8: Second Act: <strong>_I couldn't sleep a wink last night_

Molly Hooper - what does he use you to exactly? "I'm his pathologist. I help him with the dead bodies, and what-not," she says uneasily into the camera. _Why?_ "Well, I think you'll find that in murder cases, and that sort of thing they_ do_ tend to be _dead_," she says rather deadpanned. Why _you_? "I'm probably the idiot who lets him," she just says laughing. "No, I'm sure it's because I'm good at my job. I keep things tidy, I'm not afraid of the corpses either, which is _probably_ rather helpful being a pathologist." You are one of the few women he speaks to almost every day. "I'm not entirely certain about that-," Also rumour has it you helped him with faking his suicide "Oh no, _no_, I didn't," she says nervously. He says you did. "Oh, right, well – _ha_ – nice of him, then," she says not looking happy.

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><p><em>11 JULY, 09:12<em>

Mrs Holmes was sitting with the newspaper in front of her; a cigarette perched in the corner of her mouth, as she looked appraisingly at the gossip pages, which were brimming with photos of her son, and his _bride-to-be_. She laughed, just as her son Sherlock Holmes entered, with dark circles under his eyes, and following him was John Watson looking well rested.

"Good morning!" John cried out merrily, while _her son_ gazed resolutely on the front of the newspaper with a grim expression.

"_Good_ morning John – Sherlock, _darling_ – have you seen? Oh, well you probably haven't seen it - quite yet? They are using the _marvellous_ confirming statement from your blog. It's a pity that you couldn't call in about that yesterday, since the signal was out, but you can rectify that today, then," she says with a grin, before folding the paper down on the breakfast table. Sherlock doesn't say anything to this, but notices the cutlery instead. There were only three plates put out on the table.

"Aren't Mrs Hooper or Doctor Hooper going to join us?" he says glowering, as John just settles himself down putting a napkin in his lap, before grabbing for several fresh rolls of bread contentedly.

"Oh, _they left_. Took the car early in the morning. Molly was quite adamant. Very persuasive that one, and her mother – _well_ she followed suit. I almost forgot _who _was the mother for a moment," she says gaily smashing the remains of her cigarette into a crystal ashtray, which Geoffrey the butler held out for her, before he walked off with the ashtray.

"Really?" says John nosily pursing his lips, as he eyes the standing Sherlock who's got lack of sleep written on his face. He was used to Sherlock not sleeping, but it was evident that it was not for being too invested in a gloriously morbid murder-case.

"Which car?" Sherlock asks seating himself avoiding eye contact with his friend, who looked at him too curiously for his liking.

"Not yours darling, if you are worried. Phones were working again, so they took a taxi out of here, which _Alice_ was forced to pay. Quite a great deal of money for a ride to London, but she did get a lot of money," she says snorting.

"So you _really _didn't help with the article, then?" asked John grinning while drinking his tea.

"Oh _God _no. I hate the tabloids. They're atrocious. The only thing I did do was give Molly the ring," says Mrs Holmes waving her hand a little bit, before taking a sip of her tea.

"Mother, you did _what_?" snaps Sherlock in general surprise.

"Darling, I thought youknew. I nicked _that_ off you some weeks ago," she said smugly. "I'm surprised you didn't take note of it."

"I did," he says through gritted teeth.

"He started looking for it yesterday," said John, who got a glare from his friend, who just ignored him.

"Just yesterday?" quipped Mrs Holmes. "You didn't start looking for it before yesterday – that_ is_ odd – don't you think John?"

John tilted his head a bit, before turning into the general direction of his friend, looking at him amused "Yeah, _how come_ you didn't look for it before yesterday? Usually you _always_ notice if something's missing."

Sherlock just takes a slow attentive sip of his cup of tea.

"Yes, well I _did_ take it about – _three weeks ago_," says Mrs Holmes giving a bit of a theatrical sigh.

John chuckles silently at this, before putting on a serious expression, as Sherlock scowls at him.

"Mother – _what_ is your point? – Since you obviously want to make one," says Sherlock putting his tea back on the table abruptly splattering some of it on the cloth.

Mrs Holmes just shrugs her shoulders a bit "Not that it matters anyway. Molly came here to return the ring she had gotten. _Only_ yesterday – she's not very fond of diamante unlike her mother."

_THREE HOURS LATER - _11 JULY, 11:23__

Molly Hooper entered Bart's - passed the sniggering co-workers, avoided talking to anyone, and went inside her office. She seated herself, before dropping her head with a _bang_ on top of the desk, besides the monstrosity of flowers still piled on her desk (not to mention the floor).

Her friend Julie soon popped her head inside, "Hello," she said with a gentle voice, before slipping in. "You _OK_?" Molly just grunted in reply, head still on her desk.

"So _not_ good then? Things didn't sort itself out at Mrs Holmes?" Molly muttered something into her hair.

"Didn't _quite_ catch that," Julie says uneasily eyeing her friend's head, as she seated herself down across her.

Molly raises her head up from the desk, before saying with a throaty voice - "Could we _not_ talk about it?"

Julie just gives her a reassuring smile, puts her thumbs up, before Molly drops her head yet again on the desk.

"You sound a bit sexy with that voice, I've got admit. Did you stand in the cold or something?" Julie asks trying to change the subject. Molly gives a long sigh, before raising herself fully up from the desk this time, leaning back in her chair.

"I smoked a cigarette," she said.

Julie looked at her in surprise.

"You smoked a cigarette?" she repeats astonished over her friend.

"I alsodrank_ several_ glasses of wine," says Molly who puts up some fingers shakily displaying the large number.

"That's why you look like this, then?" she asked eyeing her friend who just looked at her grimly.

"Yes," she replies hoarsely.

"Since it seems to me that you should just call in sick really, because I'd call myself in sick if I were in this – err - _state_," says Julie, who goes behind the desk touching Molly's shoulders affectionately.

"I can't go home," says Molly shaking her head a bit.

"Why not?" asks Julie aghast.

"_Mum_ is there at the moment, sleeping whatever she's got - _off_, and I knew that oddly enough – work was the only place I could go to think properly," says Molly removing some of the hair that clung to her face. The corners of Julie's lips threatened to rise, but she kept a steady gaze fixed on her friend instead.

"Think properly of what?" she asks, trying to avoid asking questions about Mrs Hooper.

Molly sighs, before reaching into her pocket and showing "The ring._ Y_ou've still got _the ring_ – I thought you were going to give it to Mrs Holmes," says Julie plucking it up from her friend's hand, and staring at it yet again admirably.

"I _did_," says Molly sounding a bit hysterical. "But she was_ so_ bloody persuasive. One moment I'm saying I can't keep it and – she says – you can keep it without it being _that _kind of ring, and then I thought – _why _not, so I took it."

"_Right_ – then what is there to think about?" Julie asks creases in her brows, as she stares at her friend inquiringly.

"God, I _don't_ know Julie – I just don't know," she says dropping her head on the desk yet again. Julie almost laughs, but steadies herself rubbing her hands on her friends back.

She suddenly stops, Molly groans, and Julie asks, "Molly, _did_ anything happen these last couple of weeks – _between you and Sherlock_ that is?"

Molly mumbles into her hair, while Julie giggles.

_11 JULY, 12:14_

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were walking through the hallways of Scotland Yard, passing many an ogling employee, which was nothing unusual to them these days. They were a frequently discussed topic at the Yard, but it was blatant when people would _quote_ the blog-entry as they passed – that it wasn't due to the clever deductions that they were staring today.

"You _sure_ you want to work on a case – _today_?" asks John eyeing his friend uneasily.

"_Yes_, John. Anything to take my mind of this _mess_," snaps Sherlock.

Lestrade had phoned them saying it was urgent on the phone, and anything pressing at the moment was a nice distraction to Sherlock Holmes. The moment they arrive outside Lestrade's door though, Sherlock is obviously hesitant.

John stops abruptly with his hand on the door handle, "What's wrong?"

"We should leave," Sherlock just says coldly.

John raises his brows at his friend, but opens the door to Lestrade's office anyway - regretting it, as white rice is flung into his face. Sherlock who stepped aside was luckily not caught up in anything, and looks on with distain at the amused faces of Lestrade, sergeant Donovan and "_Anderson,_ are you here _too_?" says Sherlock with annoyance, before pressing past John who rubs at his eyes, spitting out some of the rice disgruntled.

"I _said_ he would know," says Lestrade who sits by his desk grinning at Sherlock, who sits down opposite him.

"Can't _stop_ us from trying," says Anderson by the door, as Sherlock throws him a look at which the man just makes a grimace, before walking off gruffly. Sergeant Donavon stands by the door helping John remove some rice, before saying -

"She's the only woman who'd have you – must make her something_ special_," her words reeking of insult, "You should _latch_ onto _that one_."

"Sorry?" says Sherlock turning his head around to face her. "_That _one? Her name is Doctor Molly Hooper. She is not _that one_. So please refrain from speaking if you're going to fling insults," says Sherlock turning his attention to Lestrade again, while John still stands spluttering out rice "_Shit_," he just mutters, before shaking off the last of it, seating himself besides Sherlock.

Donovan just rolls her eyes, before leaving the office, slamming the door behind her.

"It was _only_ a joke Sherlock. You don't need to look so bloody serious. Anyway - you good John – holidays been lovely, then?" says Lestrade who drinks from a cup of coffee.

John opens his mouth to answer, but is cut short by Sherlock.

"A real_ riot_ Detective Inspector, is this when you tell me, then?"

Lestrade looks baffled, "Tell you _what_?" he says directing his attention to John, as if he has the answers to this.

John just looks at him equally wide-eyed.

"I of all people am not stupid _Greg_. I have noticed," he spits looking exasperated.

"Sherlock, what _are_ you on about?" asks Lestrade who leans forward on his desk, coffee cup put aside.

"_My mother_ - she asked you to keep an eye on me and Doctor Hooper? Or did it _slip _your mind?" says Sherlock clearly not amused staring quite readily at Lestrade who looks confused.

John blinks furiously, "_What_?" he says looking in amazement at Lestrade who's perplexed expression turns into a satisfying smirk.

"Yes, John - our friend here has been a bit of _double-agent_ these last weeks, haven't you _Greg_?" says Sherlock chattily.

Lestrade just laughs. "Your mother is _quite_ the woman Sherlock. Honestly, she just showed up here a while back, and asked for me to _see_ what was going on with you and Molly."

"_Did _you find anything out?" asks John leaning forward in curiosity.

Sherlock raises his brows at his friend.

Lestrade just looks knowingly at John raising his brow suggestively, putting a hand up; as he takes a sip from his coffee cup that he puts down on the desk firmly, before saying rather drily "Nothing, _absolutely_ nothing."


	9. Behind the stage

**I do hope you enjoy this. I enjoyed writing it, despite taking longer time than usual. Gosh, hopefully you won't want to throw anything on me. Do continue giving me imaginary pastries - they are delightful, and don't make me gain any weight. Thank you for the comments, the favorites, and what-not - thumbs up to all my devoted readers! I adore you all passionately. Let's hope I haven't lost my touch.**

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><p><strong>9: Behind the stage:<strong> _Fools rush in (where wise men fear to tread)_

What do you want to say to the bride and groom – for their jou- _wait _- Is it on? "Yes, there's this tiny red light that's flashing in the front there," says Harry Watson with flushed cheeks, eyeing the camera cheekily. So, what do you want to say to the future Mrs Watson? "Oh, lovely question actually. Mary, take good care of John – he usually always takes care of me, but he's my little brother – so, have a good long marriage on me!"

Camera shifts, zooms out of face, and - "Good one on you mate - Mary seems lovely - I hope you'll be happy together!" says Greg Lestrade happily into camera. We see people dancing vigorously to "Superstitious" by Stevie Wonder. Image flickers, zoomed in on a wide grin, zooms out. "Congratulations!" says a rather red-faced Mrs Hudson. Turns black, zooms out of dark dress-jacket. Have you anything to say? Sherlock Holmes looks sternly into the camera. "Congratulations, John - Mary." Could you possibly be a bit more enthusiastic? Sherlock puts on a wide grin "Congratulations, John - Mary!" before being morose "Will that suffice?" You're really happy for him, aren't you? "Of course - Mary is less dull than his past girlfriends." I'll edit that bit out.

__DAY ONE - _16 JUNE, 14:02_

John Watson and Mary Watson - now Mr and Mrs Watson had already driven off, leaving their family and friends to enjoy the remains of the party. The cake had been sliced, the toasts been made, surprisingly by some few celebrity appearances (some shouts for a deerstalker strongly ignored), and it seemed a delightful evening was at hand with the open bar being a source for this consternation. The white tent had been well lit, during the hot summer's evening, at which everyone found himself or herself flushed sitting by the tables chatting happily. Hidden away by a great flower contraption of an arrangement stood Sherlock Holmes shielded away in shadow.

He had his gaze fixed upon a woman seated with her back to him, not some few metres away – she had been throwing her head back in uproarious laughter for the last hour, and he had stayed grounded to the spot due to childish curiosity. Her royal blue dress was unusual for her, yet elegant, suiting her shape, and made her seem more pleasant than usual. Compared to the other guests her taste was more refined, and it was evident that it was new dress.

Molly Hooper had surprised him with this, but even more so – it wasn't a display for his case. Previously, at least the Christmas that had been, when he was still _alive –_she had dressed up, from what he later understood was for his pleasure, but the look did not suit her. This look however was quite different, he noted that she might have dressed up differently for a while already, but he wasn't sure when this happened. He was quite certain about one thing – she wasn't speaking to him.

_16 JUNE, 09:45_

John Watson stood in front of a mirror untying, re-tying his tie, fidgeting furiously, before pulling it off taking slightly laboured breaths. He was getting married. An idea that seemed easy at first, but come wedding-day he was jumpy – tenser than when the proposal was spontaneously uttered from his lips, at the idea of not being with Mary Morstan. Here was John Watson _the bachelor_ – no more.

"You'll be fine," says Sherlock impatiently at his friend, while sitting looking rather bored, as their eyes meet in the mirror.

"Yes, right – of course," he just mutters giving a sigh, before finally tying his tie properly. "How do I look?"

"Like a nervous groom," says Sherlock with a smirk.

"You've got the rings, then, right? You haven't lost them or something?" asks John rather hastily.

Sherlock raises a brow at John, before patting on his dress-jacket gently.

"No, John, I haven't. Stop asking," says Sherlock.

"Yes, well – so – I'm getting married," he says rather high-pitched laughing nervously.

"The guests and the bride seem to agree, yes," Sherlock says putting on a quick smile.

John frowns, as Sherlock laughs.

John agonizingly pulls on his shirt a bit, tends to his hair, unbuttons his dress-jacket, and buttons it again.

"Maybe you'll-," John starts realizing just what he was saying. The idea of Sherlock Holmes getting married – if ever was preposterous.

"What?" starts Sherlock looking interested.

"No, I just – well – you're married to your work," John says rather self-consciously. Sherlock's face is one of surprise.

"John, you're not suggesting me going down the aisle with you?" he says rather quietly, a contemplative look on his face, as he utters the words.

John looks at him aghast.

"No, Sherlock. No, _not_ what I was suggesting. No, I'm marrying Mary, remember?"

"I hope you do," says Sherlock drily.

John frowns "I was just wondering if you'd ever find yourself – in a – similar situation, perhaps."

"I almost did once," says Sherlock thoughtfully.

John blanches "You – what?"

"Yes, several years ago – for a case. Horrible incident though, did not go down quite well. Luckily I escaped the clutches of matrimony."

"Poor girl," muttered John raising a brow at his friend.

"Even so, I don't think there's one woman in our group of friends who'd fit the role anyway," says Sherlock rather dethatched fiddling with his mobile phone.

John sniggered obviously amused.

"What?" says Sherlock looking up expectantly.

"Not according to that little thing on the telly though – that – err -documentary," says John tentatively, it was apparent by Sherlock's grim expression that it wasn't an easy subject to talk of.

"The documentary that also implied that _we_ had a specific relationship -are you referring to that documentary? I wouldn't even call it that for a start. It was more a chaotic convoluted mess with little substance and chopped-up editing," says Sherlock with clear distaste etched on his features.

"It was the most watched, though," says John with a grin, finally looking a bit calm. "I suppose there'll be popping up some interesting articles about that."

Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose.

"The general public has a vapid idea of what good television is. I do not think that we will be hearing any supposed nuptials between me and – the - _famed favourite_ – if that is what you are hinting."

John turns around eyeing him, hands dropping away from his tie, as he looks at him pleased. "So you did notice then?"

"John, their hidden meaning, wasn't very hidden, whatsoever. Even if they thought so - questioning my work-relationship with-," he stops, pursing his lips, looking albeit a bit aggravated.

"Molly, yes, Molly Hooper – the girl who helped you remember? It's odd how you could say that to a camera-crew, but you were reluctant to tell me that," says John tilting his head a bit, looking at Sherlock suggestively, before directing his attention to the mirror again tending to his hair.

"The fact just slipped my mind," says Sherlock sounding bored.

"Yes, you've probably not even thanked her," says John sheepishly. Sherlock looks pensive at this, as John awkwardly stands fists fidgeting, before saying, "Let's go then – I can't use any longer time than Mary, I suppose."

_16 JUNE, 14:16_

Molly Hooper was standing with a cluster of women, all who were desperately wanting the bridal bouquet – she stood there – not for the wish of actually catching it, but by the fact that she had been pushed forward ("You're not married, are you? Go on old girl."). She didn't have any time to react, before she was in the mass of desperate women, and even less time to respond when she found said bouquet in her hand. She stared at it horrified, as all the other women just laughed - some of them envious, before tossing it off as a good joke. Holding it a bit apart from herself, she sat back down, before putting it on the table ignoring it.

"You're next then?" says Lestrade who seats himself across her.

"Oh lord, no, married to my work, more or less," she says laughing.

Lestrade eyes her in general surprise.

"So, you really don't want to get married?" he asks her.

"Are you referring to the – err – program, then?" she says moping. "I've gotten that question about a thousand times since I said it."

"Sorry, you're probably sick of that," he says hurriedly grinning, "You want a drink then - instead?"

"Yes," she says beaming.

He smiles, before walking off to fetch her one.

Molly sighs, before hearing a familiar murmur right by her ear "He is a married man, you know."

She grimaces not looking in his general direction, as Sherlock seats himself quietly besides her.

"We're just friends – people can be that," she says after a while.

"Are _we _still friends?" he asks her leaning forward in his seat, looking at her pointedly.

She's baffled by the question, causing her to turn her face towards him.

"Have we actually ever been friends?" she asks astonished.

"We've known each other for years."

"Yes, we have known each other for years, but I don't think our relationship has ever extended over the limit of me getting you a cup of coffee."

"_Or_ helping me with faking my suicide," he quips in, at which she looks at him exasperated. "Thank you for that, if I had forgotten to say so," he adds looking at the rest of the guests, before staring at her again.

She looks at him startled for a moment, before the small familiar sweet smile creeps up on her face. The smile disappears as quickly as it came, with her declaring looking rather frustrated, "You make it really impossible to hate you."

He looks puzzled at her, mouth slightly open.

"Don't give me that – you told everyone more or less that I had helped you – even after you said it would be kept a secret," she says rather heatedly.

"Did you get in trouble at work?" he asks inquiringly, brows furrowed, as he looked a bit worried even.

"No," she says rather hesitantly.

"Then I don't see the problem of me having publically thanked you," he says smirking.

She opens her mouth, closing it hurriedly; as the familiar yell of "SHERLOCK!" is heard over the live band, that immediately stop mid-song. Guests look in interest, as Lestrade comes bounding over, drinks entirely forgotten - with phone in hand. "A woman has been found dead."

Sherlock stands up immediately from his seat, looking questioningly at the detective inspector, who without breath adds, "Her torso was found in a suitcase on King's Cross, and her lower body in a storage-facility in Brighton. Her head has yet to be found. Interesting enough for you?"

"Fascinating," Sherlock says a smile on his face, "Who's on forensics?" he adds slipping off his tie, tossing it aside to Molly who raises her brows at this gesture, before gently putting it on the table besides the bouquet.

"Anderson of course," says Lestrade sheepishly.

Sherlock looks disgruntled at the Detective Inspector, "I especially don't want to work with him."

"This isn't because of that-," starts Lestrade.

Molly looks at them both trying to hide a grin. It was evident that the _documentary_ had not gone down well with any of them. Anderson had not been the most favourable in his depicting of Sherlock's character, which would have been fine hadn't the film-crew seem to agree with the man.

"Yes," says Sherlock through gritted teeth.

"Well, I can't just call for John can I?" says Lestrade frustrated, at which Sherlock turns his head around contemplatively "He's on his way to his bloody honeymoon, so I suggest you get your act together – or I shall be forced to-," at which Lestrade halts mid-sentence, when he catches where Sherlock's gaze is fixed – on Molly, who sits looking at them both oddly.

"What?" she says in surprise, blushing despite herself, as she was stared at with those intense blue eyes.

"Are you doing anything at the moment?" says Sherlock attentively, putting on his most charming smile.

Molly automatically laughs in disbelief, "Me - _I'll_ be the replacement for John, then?"

"You have to take it a bit more seriously Doctor Hooper," he says, causing her to gape at him. "There's been a murder - a deliciously odd one at that, and_ we_ have got to find the heading in these things."

Lestrade looks not amused, but his mouth still quirks up, as he catches the sight of the guests around – some of the women apparently standing up from their seats about to volunteer. Sherlock just keeps his eyes on Molly's astounded face, before she reluctantly stands up, straightens on her dress saying "Fine, I'll help, this _one_ time."

Sherlock smiles looking satisfied before hurriedly striding off, as Lestrade swiftly follows him, with Molly trailing awkwardly behind them in high heels.

_THREE WEEKS LATER - 11 JULY, 12:27_

In the office to DI Lestrade - John Watson sat grinning, while a disgruntled Sherlock Holmes sat hands folded under his chin looking preoccupied. There was a certain air of amusement and displeasure in the Detective Inspectors office. Lestrade had just retold the ghastly story of the case, at which John had been on the edge of his seat. He had seen some of the news in the paper, but it was funny to hear the actual details.

"Not the last time, was it?" asks John.

Lestrade chuckles "No, we thought so, or _well _– I think Molly was the only one who believed that."

"That is interesting," says John.

Sherlock looks at him, before saying rather scathingly "How is that interesting?"

"There was more than one doctor present, between Mary and my friends," says John smirking at Sherlock who looks at him morosely. "So, you chose Molly."

"Doctor Hooper is familiar with any of the odd scenarios we have come across before. Her lack of fright of an actual dead body does help too," says Sherlock narrowing his eyes, before standing up from his seat with some finality "I think I'll leave you two to it. I'd rather not have to hear more of my adventures - have fun," he says sullenly leaving the two men – only to hear a great deal laughter, as he shuts the door behind him. Rather disgruntled he walked off, knowing fully well that it wasn't the end of that discussion.


	10. Third Act

**I do hope you like it, thank you for reviews and what-not! I heartily take the cookies from you with glee.**

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><p><strong>10: Act Three: Sigh no more <strong>

_The celebrated engagement reports that have been circulating are indeed accurate. This might surprise most of my readers, but you can go to John Watson's blog to have this fact confirmed – if you doubt that these words are from myself._

_Pathologist Doctor Molly Hooper is indeed the source of my affections, the brightest most enthralling woman I know of. There should not be any protests against this entirely logical conclusion after our knowing each other for years – romances on the job happen – ours is a living proof. You should not be left in any doubt of my deepest affections for Miss Molly Hooper._

_- Sherlock Holmes_

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><p><em>10 JULY, 10:21<em>

Molly Hooper sat staring for a very long time at the blog-post, which Mrs Holmes had carelessly left open for her to see. Most likely intentionally, as she felt forced to re-read the text, which she felt neither reeked of proper affection, nor had any proper _subtext_. Her mother soon enough appeared, a completely insecure expression on her face, which made the crease on Molly's forehead expand by myriads.

"Hello love," said Mrs Hooper slowly, eyeing Molly's red cardigan for a moment.

"I rather _like_ this jumper," said Molly slightly uneasily, more to herself than anyone, issuing some nervous laughter from her mother.

"So - what do you have to say for yourself? I know you knew it was a joke, mum," she adds rather waspishly, waiting for her mother's apology.

"Oh Molly dear, I know you were joking, but I thought – what a joke – I didn't think they'd take me seriously to begin with anyway. A man just phoned up and asked about you – I said that, and he – err – well_ he_ took it seriously," said her mother seating herself on the sofa with an uneasy smile.

"So a simple phone call escalated into an entire two page article?"

Mrs Hooper giggled, while Molly raised her brows.

"Oh, so we met up, he bought me a coffee, and _well _– there were some pictures," said Mrs Hooper who starts fiddling with a teacup, pouring herself a cup.

Molly just exhales saying, "I suppose there was some money."

"Not some love, a _very_ large sum of money," said her mother rather too excitedly.

Molly grimaced, mouthed the words "very large", snorting rather loudly, proceeding to say rather angrily, "You decided out of the blue, well, let's sell some of my daughter's private life for the measly sum of some pounds. Honestly mum, I don't care how much money it was – you hang up – that's what people do. I can't – I just – I literarily can't deal with you right now. Now, he already thinks I'm mental, but looking at what I'm coming from here – _well_, I don't think it's any surprise as to why."

"Love - this might actually sway him, you know."

Molly looks at her mother's hopeful face rather severely.

"I don't want to sway him, I don't need to _sway_ him – we're not – we're not even friends mum. Even so he's got a girlfriend," said Molly rather heatedly standing up from the sofa, before gazing out the window. She couldn't look at her mother.

"A girlfriend? A girlfriend – _what_ girlfriend? I didn't know he had a girlfriend. Oh, she must be mad, then?" said Mrs Hooper slightly aghast.

Molly Hooper gave a big sigh, still staring rather wistfully out of the window. "Yes, I should suppose so."

_DAY SEVEN - 22 JUNE, 01:23_

Sherlock Holmes stood with knitted brows, tapping his feet impatiently, as he wandered in front of the "big web" on his wall, mushed up of pictures, strings pulling across, as he would point occasionally muttering to himself half-sentences and sporadic words. Molly Hooper sat with bags under her eyes in the kitchen, pursing her mouth while looking sternly on her cold plate of Chinese-take-out.

"Maybe I should just call in sick," she says out of the blue, shaking her head, while shrugging haplessly. He was of course not paying attention.

"I can blame it on, some sort of – I don't know – _the flu_. No, summer. Yes, well allergies. Toby? No, probably not. You're not listening to a word, I know." Her head lands in her hands, as she gives the food up as a bad job.

Someone is heard running up the steps, DI Lestrade enters the flat, looks at Sherlock seriously, before eyeing Molly, who he nods at. "John not answering his phone, then?" he asks, his mouth quirking up a little bit. Molly just nods into her hands. "We arrested the uncle, as you said. It was also his key – _as you said_," Lestrade says to Sherlock who nods in return.

Molly looked up from her hands gaping at them "Wait – are we done?" she says surprised. "Does this mean I've been sitting here for nothing?"

"Oh Molly it was clearly a six," Sherlock says smugly, directing his attention to the detective inspector, "You found the money Lestrade?"

"Yes, he didn't hide it very well – under the garden gnome," Lestrade says chuckling.

Molly just sits staring at them both bemused "How did he do it, then?"

"Vodka," says Sherlock looking pleased.

"Vodka?" Molly repeats astounded, before saying "Yes, not getting it. Do explain, will you?"

"He had frequent trips to Finland."

"_Oh_, he knew his way around _a sauna_ more or less," said Molly beaming.

Sherlock smiled at her, a gesture, which was questioned upon by Lestrade who stood there.

"Exactly. Now - we are going to eat," Sherlock said, "I've been thinking about a good enough Turkish place. You don't mind Lestrade?" eying Lestrade, who just gave a brief grin.

"No, _no_, you kids have fun. We adults will sort the rest of the mess out," he says, raising his brows at Molly, before wandering off.

Molly just shook her head, before noticing that Sherlock's phone was vibrating on the kitchen table. She reached for it automatically, and read, _"I suggest you don't snuggle too close to your pathologist. Even how cute she is,"_ causing her to immediately drop the phone. Sherlock looked at her in surprise.

"Sorry, it slipped," she said hurriedly straightening on her top, before saying rather shakily "I think – err - I should just go to bed. Obviously my reflexes aren't quite up to par."

Sherlock just stared grabbing hold of his phone, before his eyebrows shot up in obvious astonishment at the text. "Doctor Hooper, are you jealous?" he says curiously, as Molly's thrown on her jacket.

"Jealous? Why would_ I_ be jealous?" she says as casual as possible, looking a bit hysterical, as she edges towards the door opening. Sherlock looks at her open mouthed in amusement.

"You drop my phone automatically at the sight of a text from the woman," says Sherlock quietly staring at his phone smugly, before holding his phone up as _evidence_. "That is not even worth a deduction Doctor Hooper."

Molly just looked at him more flushed than usual, "I'm going home, Sherlock," she says looking tired all of a sudden.

"No dinner, then?" he asks raising a brow at her.

She furrows her brows at him. "No, no dinner. I'm just going to bed. Goodnight Sherlock," she says sheepishly.

"Goodnight," he says, as she walks off - the door to 221b Baker Street going to a dull close as she exits. He laughs, twirling his phone in his hand, before glancing at it smiling.

___11 JULY, 11:56___

Molly Hooper was handed a cup of tea, as Julie looked at her expectantly. They were both in her office, as Molly had denied going out of it. Luckily the work she had to be done consisted mostly in paperwork anyway, and some of her colleagues were nice enough to take it off her hands – future Mrs Sherlock Holmes, as she was to be.

"Shall I repeat the question?" asks Julie, as she seats herself.

Molly shook her head.

"Are you going to talk during this?" she asks her quiet friend again.

"Yes," says Molly.

"Yes – what?" repeats Julie cheekily.

Molly raised her brows at her friend.

"You know, I know that universally that means something to people, but honestly Molly – just bloody say it will you – _you shagged_," she said irritated.

Molly just took a sip from her tea, before saying boldly, "That is a very good question," at which Julie looked at her in confusion.

_11 JULY, 14:56_

Mrs Holmes sat looking rather bored in her son's flat, a place she'd avoiding for some time - until a certain documentary reached her home, and even more so when she caught sight of her son's curious behaviour. Sherlock had never been one for romantic endeavours, despite an array of females who had been interested – even a maid who had to be let go, due to his careless manipulations administered the girl into hysterics. He knew how to charm his way into people's lives. Of course he knew not how to handle it when the opposite happened.

This she was terribly familiar with, as he had demonstratively chosen to avoid all attempts of any kind, but used some to his disposal. Molly Hooper had been for years his to use, duly noted by Mrs Holmes who pitied the girl, until she heard that she had helped him – at which_ he_ avoided her. It wasn't before after the documentary had been shown – that he suddenly took to speaking with her again. Mrs Holmes shook her head to her self, looking up, as her son entered almost glaring at her – a affectionate expression in his eyes even though.

"Mother," he says, adding rather scathingly, "What a pleasure to find you in my residence! Come to give me another ring, before taking it away, perhaps? Or maybe it is yet another attempt at me producing grandchildren? I suggest a surrogate and Mycroft giving a handy donation – I think he wouldn't be too hard to please."

"Sit," she just says rather exasperated, and Sherlock sits with a huff. "Sherlock, you know I love you darling. Quite a lot, but however brilliant you may be – you are an idiot."

"Sorry?" he looks at her apprehensively.

"You might like to pretend that nothing happened, but I am quite certain it did," she says with a smile. Sherlock looks with disbelief at his mother.

"I don't think Lestrade was the best to consult with on this topic."

"He wasn't the only one darling, obviously."

"John too? Now mother-," started Sherlock, as someone clearing her throat was heard, and Sherlock stared at the amused face of Mrs Hudson.

"Mrs Hudson, not you - not in Baker Street," he said sounding disgusted, though not surprised.

Mrs Holmes just smiles at him pleasantly "Now, do we have any biscuits? Since I'd love some chocolate ones, oh, and some tea. Tea would be delightful," she says, at which Mrs Hudson starts to move towards the kitchen, but Mrs Holmes looks at her oddly.

"Sherlock, you are supposed to entertain your guests, aren't you?" Sherlock imperiously stood up from the chair and walked off to the kitchen, as Mrs Hudson sat gingerly down in his chair as gestured by Mrs Holmes.

She looked at her son mightily entertained, before saying in the most pleasant of tones "You have better put out four cups. Miss Adler, will be joining us soon," at which Sherlock firmly dropped what he was holding, "Or Mrs Langtry, now though. Not much of a girlfriend _perhaps_."


	11. Finale

**Probably a billion spelling mistakes, as it is three in the morning in my country. I've been working, which is why this took so long. Hopefully you'll like it. Thank you for comments, favourites and stuff. They are encouraging. Hopefully you'll enjoy and comment. Oh, and just because it says finale - doesn't make it the end. It's just - _plays_ - you know.  
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><p><strong>11: Finale: <strong>_Men are deceivers ever_

Sergeant Donovan looks waspishly into the camera, arms crossed, and demeanour generally irritable. How long have you known Sherlock Holmes? "Quite some time, I suppose as long as DI Lestrade." Is it true that you were the one who discovered him? She snorts, "Not exactly no." Is it true that he made you fancy him just to get a foot in? She pursed her lips, "Where have you heard that?" That's several of your co-workers opinion. She blinks rather severely into the camera, "Can I get some names?" We'd rather keep the source to ourselves if you please. "How is this relevant?" Well, it could explain why you're so mad at him. "I'm not mad at him. Even so I don't think I'm the only one who's mad at him. There's a reason the man doesn't have many friends," she says scathingly glaring into the camera, before trotting off. So that's a yes, then?

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><p><em>11 JULY, 09:26<em>

We're back in the Holmes estate, there was sunshine pouring in from the large windows, shining down on the rather moody-looking Sherlock Holmes, who had a battered look about him, while John Watson looked positively in glee, as Mrs Holmes had just briefly announced that Molly Hooper had been rewarded an engagement ring. The same ring Sherlock had been looking for the day before, only to be trumped by his own mother. She herself sat with the paper in her hand again, displaying the heading, which caused him to mouth the words "confirmed by celebrity detective," in disgust.

"She brought the ring back again?" Sherlock asked trying to add a tone of civility in addressing his own mother, who kept on reading chuckling to herself.

After having a solid five minutes of silence, where Sherlock sat scowling at his mother, while John's head uneasily darted between said pair - Mrs Holmes finally spoke, folding the paper away yet again, "It's very interesting reading, wouldn't you say John?" she said gaily, looking at John pointedly who opened his mouth in turn, before she continued, "I've never been this amused for ages," turning her face towards Sherlock now who looked puce. "Darling, I'd rather ask the right questions if I were you – not grinding my teeth. Some orange juice?" she said gesturing to the jug. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her imposingly.

John drank his cup of tea quietly to stifle the laughter, which was threatening to burst out over the freshly made scones he had on his platter.

"You want me to feign interest in the fact that you gave her the ring?" Sherlock says in a bored tone with his chin set.

"That's better - don't you think John?" Mrs Holmes asked allowing John to answer this time.

He bit his lip eyeing his friend, before putting on a mock-serious expression. "Yes - _why _did you give her the ring Mrs Holmes?" he asked putting his napkin aside, furrows between his brows. Mrs Holmes gave him a curt nod, tapped a napkin delicately on the corners of her painted red lips, before promptly answering, "It was a gift."

"A gift? Your engagement ring – _a gift_ - a family heirloom with the estimated value of one million pounds (at this John spat out his tea). For a gift – it is a bit redundant wouldn't you say mother? The sentiment is probably not as big as the cost. You never give anything away without an agenda, especially at the price of a million pounds," Sherlock said standing up from his seat dramatically, leaving his breakfast untouched (though John swore he saw him covertly grab a scone and shove it into his dress-jacket.) "I suggest you bequest the ring to Mycroft mother. He would most likely use it," he snapped, giving a brief nod, before storming out of the dining room.

Mrs Holmes just raised her brows, looking if not rather amused at the melodramatic display that had taken place, and not a smidgen distressed. John shook his head briefly, eyeing his plate with aggravation, before saying "That's my cue," standing awkwardly up from his seat. "Right, thank you for dinner and breakfast, Mrs Holmes. It's been – err - _fun_," said John, who soon hurried after his friend.

_11 JULY, 13:27_

The Watson's home had a homey quality to it, a mixture of masculine and sweetness, which was most likely a great display of the relationship between John Watson the army doctor and Mary Morstan – the nurse. They'd been living together for quite some time (not long enough according to one consulting detective), before they finally tied the knot, which was a rather un-dramatic affair. Both had been convinced that Sherlock Holmes would cause some sort of ruckus, but the wedding went off without a hitch – it was only the honeymoon when John's mobile phone would be going off once in a while, with the odd text – that anything was at all disruptive (luckily technology can silence the consulting detective).

Everything looked comfortable in _their_ home - there were no skulls, or knives jammed into desks, or severed body parts cluttering their kitchen or living room. There was more pasta on the stove, and the constant smell of herbs, as Mary had a well-kept little garden of basils by the kitchen window. For two who had been together for more than a year – they looked quite live-in already, having more or less a routine, which Sherlock would have deemed too domestic, but which was comforting to John.

He had finally returned to his wife, after a good half hour of _gossiping_ with Detective Inspector Lestrade who told all, and absolutely nothing, which he hadn't himself assumed already. Lestrade knew as much as the papers knew, which was a great deal of guesswork. Reminding him of Irene Adler, who no one knew whether or not Sherlock did_ indeed_ care for either. John was sitting on the sofa, breathing deeply, with his Mary leaning onto him.

She shook her blonde bangs from her face, looking at him amused, before saying, "Do you want to talk about it – or do you want to watch telly?"

"Telly," he groaned throwing his arm over her shoulder, as she snuggled into his chest closely. He grabbed the remote, turning on the telly. There were some minutes of silence, with the odd sigh once in a while, when John clicked the telly off all of a sudden. "So, there's one thing that's bothering me," he more or less moans frustrated. They'd been talking already quite a great deal of Sherlock Holmes on the phone the night before, but the topic never dies out unfortunately.

"You know we don't need a baby when we've got Sherlock Holmes. How could we ever take care of a child when we've got him?" says Mary grinning.

John looked at her deadpanned, before saying, "He'll need someone to take care of him when he's old. I won't do it, you won't do it – the first-born is going to have a hell of a time."

"His godfather - the consulting detective," she says cheekily. "A right handful that one."

"You want him to be the godfather, then?" says John astonishment, but there was genuine enthusiasm in the look he gave his wife. Sherlock was despite his faults, his friend.

Mary purses her lips, "I thought that was already decided. What are we even talking about – _this_ is a metaphorical baby. I'm not even pregnant - not yet at least," she says pulling up her shirt for a moment, staring at her rather flat stomach.

"So you want to?" he asks, averting her eyes, fixing his own on the darkened television screen.

"Of course I want to, but we've got to settle our other child's issues first. Now what did he get up to today, then?" says Mary smirking, at which John sighed, but was in silent agreement with his friend being a child.

"Well, remember when I said he'd been in the flat searching for the ring ("Yes") – the ring, which he hadn't noticed had been gone during those three weeks of working with Molly ("Duly noted, yes") – why was he looking for it? Since, yes, I came up, but he didn't even know that Molly's mother was involved with the whole engagement-thing. What if he was talking of all the other articles that had been popping up _or_ that documentary?"

"Oh - that is sort of odd - isn't it? – You don't think he had intentions of using it, or something?" she asks confused.

"He had to be looking for it for some other reason," said John breathing deeply.

"You're not saying that he might actually have-," she says quirking a brow at John sniggering.

"No, no – _no_ - of course not. I just – there's _something_ off. Something_ I've_ missed obviously."

"Or just maybe, the most impossible thing, might be the most probable thing – maybe Sherlock Holmes wants to get married – the fact that the idea is so ridiculous makes it actually sound rather realistic," she said laughing.

At this John opened his mouth, before shutting it – his brows creased, "I have no idea. I don't know what goes around in that man's head - _especially_ now when I'm not living with him," he says looking rather tired.

"I think it would be a bit odd for a married man to live with a bachelor. (John laughs) Jokes aside - Molly must be mad at him though - considering the fact that her name's plastered everywhere right about now."

"Mary, there's something very important you need to know. Everyone is more or less mad at Sherlock Holmes at one point or the other. That _point_ might be all of the time for he does have a tendency to be a massive prick."

"A tendency?" quips Mary causing John Watson to kiss her soundly in delight.

_DAY NINE - 24 JUNE, 21:24_

_The Ledbury_, in Notting Hill, a chic place with character and style. The perfect place to eat French food, thought Molly Hooper, as she sat with dashing Marcus Bradley with his blonde hair. They were eating through their first meal, an immaculate plate set before her, which at first glance properly petrified her from touching it with her fork – until Marcus bravely poked on his own platter.

"You've been working with Sherlock Holmes, then?" he asks her looking a bit eager.

"Just one case – or two," she says breathing a bit more heavily through her nostrils, as she stabbed the asparagus on her plate. She knew that the question would come up at some point. She was glad that it came a good hour in.

"Are you going to do any more then?" Marcus asks, taking pauses in between his eating.

"This isn't the point you tell me you are a reporter? If so you'll be paying," says Molly cheekily grinning at him.

"Of course not – are you mental? – No, I'm just a fan of John Watson's blog. It's amazing that you've worked with him. I've always wondered how he is in real life," asks Marcus genuinely curious, leaving his plate a little bit, staring at her in earnest interest. She knew that he wasn't referring to the owner of the blog itself, quite evident by his enthusiasm.

Molly attentively chewed on her asparagus, before putting it down on the plate about to retort. She then hears curious whispers spread amongst the guests. Several people were looking behind her; Marcus brows seem to raise – his fork frozen in mid-air. Molly bites her lip, blinking, not daring to turn around.

"Doctor Hooper," says the familiar drawl.

She shuts her eyes for a second, before turning towards the detective's familiar face. "I'm on a date Sherlock," she says through gritted teeth.

"John is reluctant to answer his phone," Sherlock says looking at her if not rather bored.

"John is on his honeymoon -_ I_ am on a date," says Molly rather heatedly through gritted teeth. Sherlock looks at her questioningly, as if doubting her logic.

"You should go though," says Marcus all of a sudden causing Sherlock and Molly to stare at him in wonder. "It's probably important, isn't it Sherlock?"

Sherlock furrows his brows at him, eyeing his clothing, about to reply, but says only in a very charming voice "You're quite right. It is very important, and Doctor Hooper has been ignoring my texts."

"I've actually shut my phone off," Molly says disgruntled.

"Time is of the essence Doctor Hooper. A young boy by the name Luke Hammond has been kidnapped," says Sherlock gravely. "Any parent's nightmare."

Molly looks distressed despite herself, gives a sigh, before saying to Marcus rather guiltily "Are you sure you'll be fine? I can pay, you know."

"Oh, no, no – you go – my girlfriend saving a kid," says Marcus grinning, causing Molly to look at him in disbelief.

"First date? I wouldn't take that _too_ far," says Sherlock condescendingly raising a brow at him.

Marcus looks at him general confusion – his knowledge of Sherlock's character not quite destroyed yet, while Molly hurriedly tosses on her coat, pulling Sherlock by the hand "Yes, well we better leave, then. Goodbye Marcus, I'll –_ I'll_ call you," she says walking quickly off with Sherlock to the rather chilly outside.

"Is this how it's going to be – whatever situation I'm in – you'll come and find me?" she snaps when outside.

"If your phone was on - I would have found you faster," he says with raised brows hailing a taxi nonchalantly, ignoring Molly who was gesturing towards the restaurant half-heartedly.

She knew there would be no changing his mind, but she didn't want to feel like she'd willingly gone along. A taxi stopped, Sherlock held the door gallantly open to her, she scoffed, before climbing inelegantly in. "There might be some paparazzi. (He eyes her red dress - she buttons her coat) The child's parents are apparently rather known," he says, giving an address in Kensington Garden's to the driver, who drives off. Molly clings to the handbag on her lap, biting her lips rather cross, "Are you going to tell me how you found me then?"

"That would defeat the purpose, would it not? I'd rather like to know where I have you Doctor Hooper. I won't disturb your work, which is why you haven't heard from me in the last two days – _have you_?" he asks glancing into her direction.

She gaped at him a little bit, nodding. There had been the odd text, which she had ignored more or less (demands more or less), but nothing substantial. "But if you can work alone – then why did you bring me in?"

"Hot makes stupid - remember?" he says, causing her to blanch, until she realized he wasn't referring to himself, "If you recall, our mistress in the luggage – was not at all connected to that odd killing of the couple in Brixton – _however_ the Hammond's are," he says, with a odd smile on his face.

Molly gasped, "They're dead?"

"Yes, people make much more fuss when rich people get sliced up. Less claims of domestic violence for one. Few people with the hands of a surgeon running around, but our would-be murderer seem to think so too – his work has been unappreciated. Unfortunately, he chose the wrong wealthy couple – people _do_ like to reproduce."

"How do they know he's alive?" Molly asks worried.

"That's for us to find out. Our murderer has more or less made quite the slip with keeping a live-one now," he says in joy clapping his hands together.

Molly shakes her head at him, not seeing his hand, which was quite close to hers now in the car seat; their fingers abruptly touching the moment the taxi took to halt. They looked at each other startled, before pulling their hands to themselves.

"I'll go out first," he says eyeing the rain of paparazzi outside the taxi. She just nodded flexing her hand oddly, preparing herself a minute, before walking out.

_11 JULY, 15:35_

John Watson had been ringing the doorbell for a good minute, before he brought out his old key to the door of 221B Baker Street. He concluded almost that no one was home, except upon entering the hallway it was evident that he'd been ignored. He could hear voices talking rather waspishly, mixture of male and female, more or less. He walked up the steps – two at a time – before darting into the room with interest, until his face fell on the sight of Irene Adler standing with a ring held between her fingertips under the nose of Sherlock Holmes who looked if not a little bit sad. John's eyes widened, staring at the scene as Mrs Hudson sitting rather awkwardly in Sherlock's chair, gave him an odd wave, as Mrs Holmes sat imperiously in his old chair - the two older ladies staring at the scene of son and tenant under pressure.

"What's going on?" John asks, his head turning in all directions, as Irene just looks at him with that smile of hers. "You're – _you're_ – dead."

"Among other things," Irene says in amusement.

"She only moved to America, John. I doubt if it ever was _so_ serious," says Sherlock, looking cold and distant yet again.

"Not to worry – I am only here to drop off this," she says with a simpering smile, slipping the ring into the pocket of Sherlock's dress-jacket, raising her brows at John, who just stood there rather gobsmacked.


	12. Standing ovation

**Life and work happened, so sorry about that. Thank you for your comments! I hope you enjoy this unintentionally long chapter. They aren't supposed to be at this length, but the plot went ahead of me (as always). Hopefully I won't use an age to the next one (depending on work, I will). Thank you for following and commenting though!**

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><p><strong>12: Standing ovation:<strong> _It's only the paper moon_

INTERNATIONAL HERALD TRIBUNE

_Multimillionaire Edward Seeley, who was going to be celebrating his sixty-third birthday this week was found dead this morning around 6 o'clock by his maid - in what appears to have been a suicide. _

_Mr Seeley who was about to turn 63, was in good health and good standing with his company Seeley & sons. Not many aspects of his cheery celebrated personality gave a single inkling that the man was in a state fit enough to have done such a thing. _

_His wife Olivia Seeley still intends to keep the black-tie event on tabs, to celebrate her husband's life this Saturday – with prominent figures attending. Considering Mr Seeley's passing, the occasion might be somewhat sombre._

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><p><em>11 JULY, 12:32<em>

Julie Knightley's face went from severely confused to tickled in a matter of seconds. Her friend Molly Hooper had finally imparted an incident that had transpired between her and the consulting detective. "This happened at that fancy dress party? Those pictures of you and that black and white dress – where I specifically asked you if something was going on – and you said – it was a covert operation. How can it be _covert_ when he's bloody Sherlock Holmes? The man sticks out like a sore thumb, and considering the amount of photos that came – you're really lucky," Julie rather gobsmacked.

"Yes, well I didn't think it was something to talk about. I didn't feel like chatting about it over a coffee. Oh by the by-,"

"This is what happens when you've been around him too much. You get all funny and think that this isn't something to talk about. This_ is_ one of those things you talk about, especially over a cup of coffee," interjected Julie shaking her head.

"I thought it was a one-time event to be honest," said Molly uneasily, fingers fidgeting around her cup of tea.

"It happened more than once then?" asked Julie grinning wickedly, until she caught the rather disgruntled face of her friend "Why aren't you happy right now? You should be flipping happy."

Molly just plucked up the newspaper besides her with a stern expression on her face. Julie made an "oh", as Molly silently put the paper on the desk again.

"How come you didn't care about that before then – when you were running around with him?" Julie asked in her silence.

"Remember Jul's? I'm mad at him," said Molly sternly.

"Right, _right_, I forgot in all the fuss. It's a lot to take in, you know - a false engagement and whatnot. A lot of trouble connecting oneself to the Holmes-family apparently. But before I go," at this Julie takes a hesitant pause, before adding, "Would you have said no?"

"What?" said Molly who didn't seem to be listening, as her mind was somewhere entirely.

"If he had asked you to help him - after how he had acted – would you have said no?" Julie asked attentively, hands folded on her front, as she peered at her friend questioningly.

Molly looked a bit flabbergasted at this, fidgeting with the ring in her hands now, opening her mouth, before shutting it, "I probably would have - if it was important - I would have helped."

Julie just grinned, winking at her friend, as she finally left the office – the door slamming shut behind her with a thud, as Molly Hooper shook her head over her own foolishness. She held the ring up, furrowed her brows peering at it expectantly, as if it would reveal a secret. Just in that instance someone knocked on her office door rather attentively.

_DAY FOURTEEN - 29 JUNE, 16:11_

There'd already been an alarming vast amount of newspaper articles covering their established "partnership," which consequently caused Molly Hooper to turn off her mobile, and just lock herself in her flat trying to pretend that Sherlock Holmes did not exist – only the telly did. She'd bunched up under her covers, made a fresh batch of tea, given Toby tuna so he wouldn't sulk, and had firmly believed that she wouldn't be bothered tonight. She hadn't heard from him since their last case about the kidnapping, when things went rather bleak, and the boy himself almost died. Luckily they were just in time, isn't it how it always is? Molly shook her head for a moment, as she knew her thoughts were again clouded with the dark curly haired man, despite her better judgement.

Yes, she could speak around him with ease now. Yes, she'd been helpful. Yes, she'd done a great deal, but John Watson would be returning soon. Doctor John Watson, with his army-background would be soon resuming his role as the sole companion and friend of Sherlock Holmes. A role Molly knew quite well that she did not fully possess the feet for. Despite Sherlock's false compliments, which hastily turned into rude remarks. Amidst the thought with her teacup touching her lips; the doorbell went off. It was not a precise ringing, but an on-going frenzy of buzzing. The visitor, whoever they were was not patient – at which Molly knew without needing to be told who was at her door.

"Hello," she says tentatively pressing on the intercom if not rather hesitantly.

"Open the door," says the familiar drawl of Sherlock Holmes.

She gaped, before frowning, "I'm busy," she snaps.

"You are at home," he retorts.

She breathes deeply through her nostrils. "Doesn't mean I'm not busy Sherlock."

"Can I speak with you upstairs at least?"

"You can talk with me through this."

She hears some heavy breathing on the other side. It was not very difficult to imagine his rather irritated, less than serene expression of distaste of having to use common ways of communicating with what was probably an excellent speech he had prepared. She wasn't wrong in her assumption.

"There is a party tonight, a special occasion – a birthday celebration thrown for the newly departed Edward Seeley – you've heard of him - I've been invited."

"Right," she says rather confused. "So?"

The breathing continued, one of derision, "I'd like you to accompany me," he says sounding rather irritated.

"Why?" she enquires, at which he gives a deep breath.

"Mr Seeley seemed to know of his death prematurely. He had contacted me prior this. Informed me someone was after his blood. I thought it was a rich man's paranoia. He shows up inconveniently dead after a supposed suicide, causing me to conveniently take his case," he rattles off impressively as always.

"His body proved a dead-end, then?" asks Molly, who ends up being rather infuriated with herself for being curious. She grimaces at the point the unintentional joke got out.

"It was a quick cremation, must say they weren't too keen on letting his body go cold. Also Doctor Crawley was at Bart's," he says sounding mad. Doctor Crawley who distinctively never let him have his way in any matters, unlike her.

Molly looked distinctly tense, indecisively holding her finger on the buzzer gently, before arguing against it -

"I haven't got anything to wear – it's probably fancy dress – you should do this one alone," she says trying to sound rather firm, except she can hear his smile on the other end.

"I've got a dress," he says in an almost unholy singsong voice of genuine smugness.

Her eyes widen as she takes in the news, mouthing "dress" to herself, and trying to visualize what sort of dress he'd borrowed from Mrs Hudson.

"You've got me a dress? You don't even know my size," she says switching between amusement and vexation.

"Will you join me?" he says, putting on his most convincing pleading voice, smeared with some undertone, which he always used with Molly specifically, knowing how well it worked.

She removed her hand from the intercom, staring rather restlessly around her flat, before pushing the intercom again, "Fine - I'll come, but I don't honestly see why you need me - when there's no body around."

"You'll make it look like it's more pleasure than work."

"I've worked with you before Sherlock," says Molly glad he's not there, as she flushes on him having said the word "pleasure".

"Yes, but tonight you're not Doctor Hooper. You are _Molly _– now let me in, the car is waiting outside, and this woman isn't very pleased to be standing with me," he says causing Molly to frown in confusion, before finally buzzing him in.

She held the door to her flat open expecting to see him, except a blonde woman barged through the door carrying make-up equipment and a see-through bag revealing a beautiful black and white dress.

"I'm sorry – who are you?" Molly asks startled, as she'd assumed that Sherlock would be the only one who'd see her appearance.

"If I'd known. I'd be here earlier, but we'll sort this out," said the woman eyeing Molly clucking rather disapprovingly at her clothes. "I'm Louise – I'll be your stylist for this evening."

"Sorry but – where is Sherlock?"

"Mr Holmes had some business to take care of, but he'll return when you are ready. Now, take a shower, or must I help you in that department too?" asks Louise if not rather sternly, as Molly amazed stepped off to take a bath, shaking her head annoyed over the detective's antics.

_11 JULY, 15:07_

The quiet that set over 221B Baker Street was definite from the moment Irene Adler's name had been mentioned - it was evident that things had been set in motion for a while. Sherlock Holmes, who'd seemed startled out of his reverie, soon brewed the tea, doing it ever so precisely, before taking a tray with four cups placing it on the small table by the right side of his mother.

His landlady Mrs Hudson eyed him rather nervously, as he poured the perfectly brewed tea in their cups rather quietly. Mrs Holmes eyed the china with amusement, taking some sugar and milk in her cup, before stirring, as Mrs Hudson did exactly the same.

Sherlock did not touch his tea; instead he fetched his violin, as he was clearly in the process of thinking. "Mrs Langtry has been very helpful in explaining a few aspects, which have remained unclear to me," said Mrs Holmes rather chattily to Mrs Hudson who only quirked a smile in reply.

Sherlock paused in teasing the bow on the strings, his eyes fixed out of the window in Baker Street – "Helpful, yes, but at what cost mother? I am sure _Mrs Langtry_ enjoys the game as much as the other person, but her loyalty comes at a price."

"Mycroft and myself have already helped her with her various _issues_, which in turn ended with her extending her hand graciously to us," she starts with a smug smile playing at her lips, with the cup in hand.

Sherlock soon strides towards her, violin in hand glaring at his mother, "You've promised her the ring."

"I just wanted evidence," said Mrs Holmes raising her brows confidentially.

"Proof of what?" he asked, frustration etched on his face.

"Molly did not return the ring Sherlock. _Obviously_," she said in surprise at her son's blatant ignorance. "You're acting like a petulant child. Not answering my questions – what sort of means am I supposed to have taken? Mrs Hudson was also a helpful assistant, procuring the ring for me," At which Sherlock stared at Mrs Hudson who only bit her lip down in blatant nervous amusement.

"Everyone is working against me on the basis of assumptions? Assumptions that manifested itself from some torrid reports in the papers, and a mock-up documentary – that in turn tried to ridicule all that I work for? If I am acting like a petulant child mother, I am acting for a very good reason. Now, you've gone and brought back to life a woman who we cannot trust," says Sherlock rather heatedly, while his mother just eyed him in silence.

"You saved this woman's life once. You might want to pretend it didn't happen, but you did. You might not trust her, but she seems to have trusted her own life in your hands. No wonder, Molly is confused," said Mrs Holmes with pursed lips, shaking her head a little, before taking an attentive sip of her cup.

The crease between Sherlock's brows deepened, "Molly does not know that I saved her life," he said if not rather regretfully.

"I don't see the issue as to why Molly shouldn't know, as you have said – both of you are just colleagues, who are somewhat friends, and seemingly aren't that now either. Considering your behaviour I am not surprised she's rather aggravated with you," she says causing Sherlock to frown.

There's a small clearing of the throat, and they all spot Irene Adler, or Mrs Langtry standing looking rather elegant in a black dress. "I am sorry to interrupt. The door was open, I locked it – you never know what might wander in," she said with a pleasant smile, locking eyes with Sherlock, who narrowed his in turn.

"Mrs Langtry I presume?" he said quirking a brow at her, "Gracing us with your presence. Have you come here to boast – perhaps? Or claim your price? A million pounds will suffice, perhaps?"

She looked at Sherlock raising her brows at him, before directing her attention to Mrs Holmes; clearly entertained "You've really caught him off guard, Mrs Holmes. I'd never thought I'd see the day."

Sherlock snorted, snapping his mouth shut, as he put his violin aside.

"I was just passing, you know. In London for some business-," said Mrs Langtry attentively eyeing the flat.

"Not pleasure then?" Sherlock snapped.

She narrowed her eyes at him, walking further into the flat, before opening the palm of her hand – at which Mrs Holmes looked if not rather disappointed. "I spoke to your pathologist, who had _this ring_, which she did not the know the estimated value of. She was quite baffled and wanted to return it. I mentioned that I was going to pay a visit, so I could drop it off – friends as we are." Sherlock looked down at her rather coldly, eyeing the ring, which she kept between her fingertips.

"What do you expect me to do with this? I was under the impression my mother was giving it away to you?" he said questioningly.

"Yes, well so did I, but Miss Hooper seemed to have been given it first. I am not one for _seconds _really," she said smiling at him. "She seemed also to be under the impression that we were a couple. I corrected her of course – also I have no recollection of having sent you texts either. Another falsehood she was labouring under. I corrected the whole thing, but despite it all – she still seemed quite content on giving the ring away."

"As are you – You've obviously married a wealthy man, determined by the size of the ring on your hand," says Sherlock looking rather vexed.

"Yes, I married. A girl can't always wait. I'm sure Miss Hooper won't be waiting any longer either Mr Holmes. Not everyone is patient." There was some ringing on the door below, which they all ignored.

"Well, she has been," piped Mrs Hudson unexpectedly, causing both Irene and Sherlock to stare. "She's fancied him since forever, it's just him who's been the slow one, but I don't think you deserve her Sherlock. You've been running around with her almost all summer, this is where it all leads to – a mess with some rings, really. Poor girl," she said shaking her head at him disapprovingly. Mrs Holmes looked diverted sipping from her tea, despite herself.

Sherlock looked displeased at this, "There is nothing going on between me and Doctor Hooper."

"_Right_," said the three women more or less in unison.

"I don't think she'll have you anyway. She did seem quite mad when I showed up," said Irene with a red-lipped grin – at which Sherlock's expression softened quite hurriedly.

Seconds later, John Watson sprang into the room, baffled by the scene, as Sherlock Holmes found himself with the ring in his pocket.

_DAY FOURTEEN - 29 JUNE, 21:45_

Edward Seeley's mansion was impeccable, baroque and lush – and even more so with the myriads of flower arrangements spread about. None of which gave a hint of a man having passed away. Neither did the champagne that was being served by the well-dressed waiters who all wore Westwood. Yet, they'd tried with the apparent "black and white"-theme, which the guests still maintained while laughing gaily avoiding the large portrait of Mr Seeley that stood eagle-eyed glaring at them. The live-band serenaded the guests, with its frequent play of Cole Porter's recognisable hits. In the far end to the left, by a marble staircase stood Molly Hooper dressed in a luxurious white and black gown that reached the floor (a dress at the expense of one Mycroft Holmes – price at request it said).

She tapped her newly painted red nails on the glass of untouched champagne, biting her lips uneasily, as Sherlock Holmes soon appeared walking down the steps dressed impeccably in a suit.

"Don't fidget so much," he says when reaching her side, clutching her hand, before giving it a light peck – his calculative eyes flickering on the guests before them. Keeping up appearances, he had said.

"I'm sorry, I feel rather out of place, as there's no dead bodies. I'm also _not _entirely sure if John would wear the dress," she quips back, causing him to snort, before looking rather serious again.

"Funny Doctor Hooper," he says still holding her hand, which she shakily tore back to herself.

She ignored his name-calling, "What did you find?"

"He didn't kill himself," he just says leaning into her ear murmuring, "The man was definitively a gun-nut, but obviously for their merit. His entire collection is filled with guns one could barely hold without them blowing up in ones face."

"Then it might have been an accident," she says.

"Yes, how dull," he says with a grimace, walking ahead of her, picking up a champagne glass, which he only held, as they past gawking guests ("Is that?" "Lord, it really is!").

"Someone must have known he'd enquired after me," adds Sherlock still whispering the information in her ear, causing her to flush despite herself.

"Yes, well probably just his family, maybe?" at which Sherlock looked at Molly astounded, ridding him and hers glasses of champagne to a nearby guest, before pulling Molly by the hand into the direction of the garden.

She could see that this caused quite a stir amongst the guests – as they rushed past them out into the garden – with the large bushes looking like a complex labyrinth under the moonlight.

"He has children. One of them must be the culprit," he says rather heatedly pulling her along. She snatched her hand out of his, hands on her hips, as she still stood by the large opened glass doors, "Sherlock, you're accusing a child for murder?" she whispers derisively, trying not to convey that she was mad, with a false smile still on her face, to confuse the on-looking guests.

"I'm accusing a child for playing with a gun," he says rather smugly, causing Molly to raise her brows at him.

"What do you expect us to do exactly? You're not trying to say that we're going to wake his children up, at this time, and ask them if they'd touched his collection of guns recently? Their father just died, Sherlock," says Molly stopping herself for a moment, before continuing, "If one of them is responsible, they're guilty enough as it is, without you dragging them out in the middle of their father's party."

"Not good?" Sherlock enquires looking if not rather puzzled.

She opened her mouth a bit at him, laughing a little, before saying, "Yes, rather not good."

"Yet the mother attends the celebration with no shame, no remorse, I haven't seen a wet eye in this room," he says rather loudly, at which some passing people stared.

Molly just smiled at them awkwardly, "I didn't think you cared two straws about him?"

"He's a client, Hooper – an important client," he says looking annoyed at the look she was giving him.

"Right," she says with a small nod, beaming at him.

"There are still some loose ends," Sherlock says rather scathingly, peering around, as if looking for something. "I need to collect my thoughts."

Molly shifted awkwardly on her feet, as she knew what came next. "Well, I should go," she says gesturing with her thumb to the rest of the people inside. He just looked at her baffled, "_Out loud_ Hooper - out loud. I do need your input."

She blinked at him furiously for a few seconds, sighed, before letting herself being guided into the labyrinth. "It isn't as simple as a accident. If it was I wouldn't have taken the case," he says pulling her along.

"Fine - you're right," says Molly grudgingly, as they walk pass others walking under the moonlight.

"The fact that we have been watched this entire evening does indeed convince me that we are not wanted guests," he says with his deep voice leaning onto her again.

"You've been on the telly. People are bound to stare," she says, as he surprisingly takes her arm, holding it close to him, while his eyes peer side to side.

"I don't think they would follow us despite liking rubbish television," he breathes, at which her head almost automatically turns around, but he stops her by putting a finger under her chin rather commandingly halting any movement whatsoever.

He's pressing her back towards a bush, while the sound of footsteps is heard. She stares at him, breath hitched in surprise, as her eyes go to the side, but he looks at her with that unnerving blue gaze of his causing her to gape.

"I promise to not let you stand in the rain next time," he says a smile playing on his lips, eyes darting to the side, looking surprised for a second, before returning on her face.

She laughs relaxing all of a sudden, as it's just one of his games. She'd gotten so used to him being around, yet she was still startled when he'd do something unexpected, which was always.

"_Mind palace_ - I can't understand how John bothers with you some times," she says almost a whisper, laughing a little, before the giggle gets caught in her throat at the sight of the serious expression on his face.

The person walking towards them is walking rather slowly, shoes digging into the path. Sherlock's blue eyes twinkle familiarly, a smirk on his face, as he puts his hands on her waist delicately. Her expression is that of confusion, when he says -

"This is just an experiment Doctor Hooper."

She opens her mouth to speak, but her lips are suddenly caught into a rather soft kiss from the infamous detective. She's rather rigid for a few seconds, before she firmly relaxes, hands sliding around his neck, as if it was a familiar sensation.

His tongue slipping into her mouth, hot breath on her face, as his hands dig into her waist. Soft lips on hers, tentatively tasting her mouth, before she finds herself entirely pressed up against the bush behind her – twigs pressing on her bottom, as he kisses her more fiercely now – tongues clashing. Her hands land in his soft tousled curls, as he bites on her lower lip, before slipping out of her grip entirely.

Molly looks at him mouth half-open, as she sees the back of the head of their pursuer. She perches her lips a few moments, before staring back at the detective who was straightening his tie looking if not entirely innocent.

"That old woman was following us then?" she asks narrowing her eyes at his haughty expression.

"My mistake," he just says with a quick raise of his brows, before darting off towards the mansion again. Molly gave a sigh, ignoring the overwhelmed feeling she was having, as the man leading her was in the same perturbed state.

_11 JULY, 13:05_

Molly Hooper still held the ring in her hand, as her office door opened abruptly revealing Mycroft Holmes, who eyed her surrounding office with false interest. She looked at him rather startled for a moment, quickly recovering, standing up and saying "Mycroft - what are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd pop in on my future sister in law, as I can see you've already laid claim on the family fortune," he says with a quick smile eyeing the ring in her hand, which caused her to frown, before placing the ring on the desk.

"What is it?" she asked apprehensively.

"Your mother Alice did not show up today," he said with a quick smile, eyeing the various flowers and cards with bridal imprints on them (all signed with significant irony).

"I'm sorry?" said Molly, who was aware of her mother hoarding over her sofa at the moment, most likely talking out loud to her cat Toby, while bemoaning her daughter's choice of furniture.

Mycroft raised his brows at her for a moment, before a smug smirk appeared, "She has obviously not informed you of this, then. She's been working as my assistant for some time now."

"My mum?" she said, deep crease between her brows. "My mum has been working for you – _why_?" She knew quite well that her mother had not worked for years, but then again her mother was usually the woman who'd not run off tattling to the tabloids.

"Mummy gave her a job, more or less – in my department. Funny little coincidence that her getting the job was about three weeks ago," he said imperiously pursing his lips.

"Yes, funny little coincidence," said Molly rather scathingly frowning at him, while her index finger toyed with the ring on her desk, before she looked up startled, "Wait, why would they do that? You've got something to hide – haven't you?" she said with a huge grin.

Mycroft glowered at this. "No, I haven't. Mummy just wanted to give me a good assistant."

"Between the thousands of more suitable younger ones you've got?" said Molly rather knowingly.

"Her being missing is top priority Molly, as you can see by me taking the time to be here at present," he said looking rather dissatisfied.

Molly's mouth quirked upwards. She'd become quite accustomed to the man's presence, as he'd in turn tried making her talk about her partnership with his brother (she'd refused).

"After what Sherlock's told me, I don't think coming down to Bart's was highly necessary for something you could have texted me about, and you probably more or less knew about it already. I might not be Sherlock, but I'm not an idiot," said Molly looking rather affronted at the older brother of the genius.

Mycroft looked cross at this point, his mouth in a stern line, as he eyes her oddly for a moment.

"What do you want?" she asked in his silence.

"Doctor Hooper, you as well as me know that my brother is not the best of men. He has hid his affairs quite profusely, from me time and time again," he starts.

"He's one of the few who can," she pipes in.

"Yes, well there's some things even the best of men cannot hide – how well they strive to. He might be a genius, but he is not formidable in the aspects of affection," he said smirking.

Molly turned a shade of crimson despite herself, her eyes on the ring for a second, before directing her eyes on him.

"You've come to me more than once to have information. I'm not giving it to you, even how much I think your brother is a-," she stops for a moment, before clasping the ring in her fist, "My mum gave a great account of it all, I suggest you ask her," she says, disappearing quite hurriedly out of her office – ring in hand. Mycroft Holmes just smirked contentedly to himself, a small laugh escaping his mouth, as he stood alone.


	13. Encore

**Thank you for comments and what-not. I'm throwing this out before work! Hopefully you'll either love it or absolutely hate it. A reasoning is always lovely to hear. There's been added proper "timing" on each chapter, on the helpful comments by Chroma and obi kenobi - to make it easier to follow; time-wise. Story-wise might be a completely different manner. **

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><p><strong>13: ENCORE: <strong>_You call it madness, but I call it love_

_EXCERPT FROM THE SUN_

_SEXY SLEUTH ENGAGED TO MORTICIAN_

_Written by Peter Chapman_

Mrs Hooper (64) is quite ecstatic on her daughter's romance with the sexy sleuth known as Sherlock Holmes (35) whose rise into the public domain started with the onslaught of blogging by his friend John Watson (38). Mr Watson is most likely the source of inspiration being bound in matrimony recently, contradicting all rumours of bachelor-hood with the great Mr Holmes. The infamous blogger-detective is now engaged with the pathologist Doctor Molly Hooper (33) from Bart's according to the fiery Mrs Alice Hooper, confirming it for our dear readers. The rumours have been abound the moment Miss Hooper was found helping the man in on a case, as they'd been previously rumoured to have a relationship during the documentary, which was caught by about 1 million viewers.

The name of Sherlock Holmes is getting an onslaught of fans, and it was inevitable that people would pair him up with the delightfully sweet Doctor Molly Hooper (who is supposedly the one who helped him fake his death). Photos and rumours have been circulating the moment she appeared at his side, clearing up several of the most spoken about cases these hot months, "Yes, Molly's barely picked up the phone," said Mrs Hooper delightfully. "I suppose she's too busy with him. He might not be the handsomest of men, but he is certainly quite the interesting one." The general public seems to find him appealing, even landing him the first place in the Sun's sexiest man-list.

A surprising winner of this highly celebrity-filled list, with some famous figures following his name – David Beckham was in second place with just half of Mr Holmes' points. One can say that Miss Hooper surely is quite the lucky woman. The man might be an enigma at best, but he is indisputably one of the sexiest men in London at the moment.

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><p><em>12 JULY, 00:34<em>

Alice Hooper had been sprawled upon the floor, looking underneath the beige sofa, beyond the flower patterned cushions that covered it, between the collections of dusty crinkled well-read books, inside the kitchen cupboard stashed with bottles of red wine, and had almost shrieked the moment she heard the keys entering the key-hole. She stood up from the floor, throwing herself on the sofa, causing the cat Toby to jump out of the sofa mewing loudly in displeasure.

"Hello," she half-yelled rather breathlessly, with flushed cheeks staring at her daughter who eyed her back in turn with a deep frown. At which Mrs Hooper stared at her in surprise, for Molly was rather dolled up, "You popped in here earlier then?"

"No," Molly answered with a grim expression, dropping her handbag on the floor, and looking bleakly at her own mother.

"I was at Mary's-," she added, eyeing her mum for a moment confused, "Isn't it rather late mum?"

"I couldn't sleep to be honest, I'd slept most of the day away, so I'm just catching up on my telly-," she said, mouth half-open as she stared in the direction of the dark television set, which caused Molly to raise a brow at her.

"Mum – _question _-," started Molly, at which Mrs Hooper looked at her expectant to be chided. "The one who interviewed you for that piece in the paper, was that by any chance Peter?"

"I thought you knew," said Mrs Hooper aghast.

"I just managed to get some quick reading done a bit earlier, as a matter of fact, and I just happened to see his name – isn't he an old boyfriend of yours?"

"Well-," started Mrs Hooper turning an awful shade of crimson, "You know what – I am feeling a bit knackered right now-," she started giving a rather theatrical yawn, as Molly stood cross armed observing her with lips pursed.

"Oh, well – _of course_ – I understand," said Molly mock concerning, "Would you rather talk about your employment with Mycroft Holmes then?" at which the fake yawn evaporated quickly from Mrs Hooper's features.

"You know about that-," she said startled clutching at her chest.

"He popped in at my work today, asked for you – so – when did you intend to actually plan telling me?"

"I – well – I didn't – it's just a job love-,"

"Mum – it's quite a big job being the assistant – to – to –_ the_ biggest man in the government apparently. So I'm sorry if I'm baffled that my mum who worked as an English teacher got a job as an assistant past her retirement," snapped Molly heatedly leering at her mother.

"We could talk about Peter if you want, then?" asked Mrs Hooper rather quietly fidgeting.

At which Molly laughed rather hoarsely, before drily saying, "I'm going to bed. You will give me a good explanation in the morning."

"Love - it really – Peter tricked me-," started Mrs Hooper who looked genuinely affected now. Molly stared at her mother in surprise, as she was on the verge of stomping into her bedroom.

"What?"

"He said it was a coffee, to catch up, and talk about the old days, which was nice. I haven't seen him since your dad died, and it was lovely. I haven't had a coffee with someone in ages, and then he just – you know – started talking about you – I almost walked off-," said Mrs Hooper rather hurriedly.

"Mum – really – I-," interjected Molly.

"The git goes on, and says that no – this wasn't about you at all, and so I chat away. I joke of your supposed engagement and _everything_. I hear nothing from him all of a sudden - then I find a cheque in the post – then _that_ in the papers. I really didn't do it for the money-," she said apologetically.

"Why didn't you just say?" interrupted Molly astonished.

"I didn't want you to think me an idiot – _also_ – I was sort of hoping that you thinking I was a horrendous mother would throw you into the arms of the infamous detective – at least – even a little-," she said with a cheeky grin.

"Mum," said Molly sternly, before getting caught up in a tight hug with her mother.

"I'm sorry love. Do forgive your old mother for having a soft spot for silver-haired devils?"

"Oh God, I am so sorry I yelled at you mum," said Molly guiltily.

Her mother just smiled, "Love - if your granny had done the same I would have killed her. I could deal with a wee bit yelling, I've gotten my share through the ages."

Molly sniggered, shaking her head at her mother, before saying rather entertained - "So – employed by Mycroft Holmes, then?"

"Can that wait for breakfast at least?"

"_Mum_," said Molly irate.

_DAY FIFTEEN – 30 JUNE, 03:48_

Molly Hooper had been rather flummoxed at the turn of events. One second she had been sipping champagne at a rather elegant setting, then swept into a diversion of a kiss hidden with Sherlock Holmes, before he proceeded giving a toast to the adoring crowd revealing the murderer of Mr Seeley, as she stood hand covering her face in the corner. Unsurprisingly enough, due to the startled whispers that occurred they got thrown out by the widow, which was to be expected, as it was her lover who had been accused.

In the end, the man revealed himself being the murderer by showing up at her flat with the murder-weapon in hand – he unlike Sherlock didn't know it would blow up in his face, desecrating Molly's flower-patterned sofa, which sort of explained why Sherlock was adamant on going to her place – a thing her flushed cheeks admitted she was curious as to why.

"My sofa – it's ruined-," she says rather quietly, more to herself, as the door to her flat slammed shut on her face by Lestrade who amusedly said, "You better find another place to stay really," eyeing Sherlock meaningfully.

Sherlock had been pointedly quiet during the whole exchange, spending most of his time texting on his phone, as Molly rather fitfully stood grinding her teeth on her doormat still dressed up in the fine black and white frock. "Sherlock," she said in his silence, turning to him, "I've got no place to stay."

He didn't answer, seeming firm on the phone, before he suddenly raised his brows, looking up at her saying, "You can stay at my place," returning his eyes to the phone.

"Right," she says with a small nod, as he just led her out of the building hailing a taxi – they got in, and he finally pocketed his phone, staring out of the window quietly. She narrowed her eyes at him questioningly.

"Who were you texting?" she asked in his silence.

"John," he quickly answered.

"What about?"

"I needed to know if I would be sleeping on a sofa or you would."

"Really?" she said in surprise.

"He's much more aware of these social things, than I am, and more inclined to answer that sort of text, than me asking him to come home for a case-," he starts looking irritated.

"Of course, right – yes – well – I'll be having the sofa then."

"No, my bed – or is that a problem for you?"

"No - not at all - that's rather nice of you."

"John said it was the appropriate thing to do, also I'll replace the sofa-," he says sounding rather bored.

"You don't need to do that-," she says horror-struck.

"I do – it was a atrocious piece of fabric. You need something less _gaudy_," at which Molly frowned at him.

"You know what – I think I can probably find something more suitable-," she says nodding abruptly.

"No, end of discussion Doctor Hooper," he snaps causing her to shut up startled, fidgeting with her hands, "You should really stop with the fidgeting, you are more attractive without it."

"Does every compliment come wrapped with an insult or is that just me?" she says looking at him sternly.

"I kissed you tonight, Doctor Hooper, I thought you'd be pleased," he says looking at her questioningly.

Molly looked at him appalled, before eyeing the driver who had been listening intently, "Excuse me sir – could you drive me to Daventry Street 121C?" the driver gave a nod.

"No, 221B Baker Street," snapped Sherlock.

The driver looked unsurely between the pair, before saying, "You're Sherlock Holmes aren't you, mister?"

"Yes, then you are quite aware of my address," Sherlock remarked rather scathingly.

"I don't think the Miss wants to go with you sir," said the driver with a wry sort of smile. "I'd never force a young lady to go with me anywhere. I'm sorry, but I'll be listening to her."

Sherlock blinked furiously at this, before addressing himself to Molly, "Doctor Hooper, I don't see the point of arguing about this, you are taking the bed - I am sleeping on the sofa-," he starts.

"Mr Holmes," says Molly mock-seriously grimacing at him, "I think I'll be staying at my friend's tonight - thank you very much."

"Are you mad at me?" both Molly and the driver look at Sherlock baffled. Sherlock just gives a sigh at this once the car takes to halt. "We are not driving off until she is inside," says Sherlock, at which the driver just gives a brief nod.

Molly looks at Sherlock displeased, before getting out of the taxi with a huff, "Thank you – sir-," she says addressing the driver.

"Names Colin, Miss," he says with a brief nod. "It's been a pleasure." Molly gave him a smile, sauntering off to the door, standing there rather awkwardly as she rung the doorbell.

There was no answer; she rang again, still no answer, before looking back at the taxi irritated. "Can I borrow your phone?" she asks Sherlock.

"Molly, I have completely decent sleeping arrangements. In an innocent manner, Mr Black (read from your licence, there) – if _you_ are worried – I won't lay a finger on her," said Sherlock haughtily in the back seat of the taxi.

"You can borrow mine Miss," says Colin who eyed Sherlock warily, at which Molly happily received it from him, before hurriedly dialling – only to receive no answer. She rang once more on the doorbell, then once more on the phone, before slipping into the taxi again. "No luck then?" asked Colin.

"No," said Molly dejected, "Let's drive to 221B Baker Street."

Sherlock said nothing in this exchange, observing Molly's face only, smirking as they drove off.

_11 JULY, 15:37_

John Watson's eyes flickered across the various faces that occupied 221B Baker Street at the moment; from the smug satisfied face of Irene Adler, to the bemused one of Mrs Holmes, to the slightly awkward Mrs Hudson, and the most unreadable expression from Sherlock Holmes, who's eyes soon looked to his friend, "Have you come to join the festivities, then? I am certain everyone will be delighted to clear out on your behalf, I am sure you are also longing to wander off Mrs Langtry, to whatever activities you'll be partaking of as a tourist in these parts," he spat, stepping away from her entirely, eyes flickering over to Mrs Holmes who had a mobile phone up, before it disappeared quite quickly. John saw this in wonder, before glancing at Mrs Hudson who just gave him a shrug.

"Irene Adler is not dead – right-," said John, obviously talking to himself, than them, looking uproariously confused at the scene before him.

"I am rather thriving, the woman, as I am," she said glancing cheekily at Sherlock. "I am rather disappointed that I never got an invitation, you know. I have gotten a pardon," she said with a smile to John, before looking at Mrs Holmes who smirked at her in turn.

"Right," said John astonished with furrowed brows, before glancing at Sherlock who was now occupying the spot by the window, his back turned to all of them. "You returned – a – Molly's ring, then?" John enquired licking his lips.

"Miss Hooper gave it to me, a bit of a grey mouse that one, but none the less sweet. She was endearingly forceful at it being delivered in pristine conditions back to the rightful owner," Irene reeled off, eyes on Sherlock's back.

John just nodded slowly, before looking at Mrs Holmes, "Why did you let Molly keep the ring in the first place, then?"

Mrs Holmes looked at him in mild surprise, "I had hoped it would sway her, as I've previously stated. It was also a gift, I didn't see the point of keeping it any longer."

"A million pounds would sway the most," said Sherlock, sounding if ever disgruntled by the window. "I suppose I should hand the ring to you mother," he added erratically turning around, his fist jammed in his pocket, but at which Mrs Holmes just put her hand up silently.

"Not needed Sherlock, not at all," she said with an odd sort of smile, as Sherlock's hand relaxed momentarily.

"I am not going to use it," he murmured.

"I know," she only said rather wistfully, before glancing at John for a moment, sighing as she stood up from her chair, "I've better attend to my duties as mother, I am meeting Mycroft for dinner, I'd like you to join us Sherlock, but I am sure you'll be too busy to attend that," she said adding a peck on Mrs Hudson's cheek, sweeping over to Sherlock giving him a once-over (shaking her head ever so slightly), greeted Irene goodbye, before saying to John knowingly, "Do take care of him, he will need it." John just gave a nod, his mouth quirking upwards, as he glanced at his friend who stood frowning at them.

"I am capable of taking care of myself, mother," said Sherlock exasperated.

"Yes, I know darling. It's shown by the startling amount of maturity you've maintained throughout this whole affair, and now it has ended – with a ring, as it started. I suppose it couldn't go any other way," she said, giving him a look, before leaving the flat entirely.

"I presume that is my cue too, I mustn't overstay my welcome either," said Mrs Langtry, brows raised, sharp nod to Sherlock who just looked at her sheepishly in return. "Though I would have liked to be invited for dinner. Unfortunately family reunions aren't entirely my thing," and with that she walked off. In the end it was the three sturdy people whose personage often haunts the invariable flat left standing.

"Yes, right – that wasn't weird – no, not at all," said John mouth half open in a smile, causing Sherlock to furrow his brows at his friend.

"You seem - _happy_," he says, eyes narrowed all of a sudden.

"You've changed yourself. One moment you are standing, looking particularly brooding by the window, and the next you're scrutinizing why I look pleased. I've just returned from a honeymoon-," he says laughing.

"Your first night spent home was with me though-," said Sherlock inquiringly, looking at his friend suspiciously.

"Not that I didn't expect that-," said John disgruntled.

"Who sent you here then?" spat Sherlock in surprise, "Mycroft wasn't it – of course – he knows – of course – idiot - god," he adds venomously, grunting, striding over to his friend with long steps, as John's expression went from amused to exasperated in some revelation.

"Not Mycroft actually," he said drily.

Sherlock's angry expression falters.

"Who?" he asked in surprise.

"Honestly, Sherlock. You've got to be kidding me. Has this entire thing been some stupid set-up of yours?" asked John rather crossly.

"What do you know John?" spat Sherlock.

"That the bloody ring in your pocket isn't real –," said John who soon fished from his own pocket _the ring_, "This _is _the ring."

"Molly gave that to you-," said Sherlock staring at it with a raised brow.

"Yes, bloody Molly gave it to me – what the hell are you playing at? One second I'm feeling sorry for you, but – then you think Mycroft sent me here – really – this is just – God, Sherlock – I think it's just for the best that you just don't-," started John severely aggravated.

"Don't what?" said Sherlock staring at him in alert.

"You don't deserve her," said John wide-eyed at his friend.

"Of course not," he said snagging the ring out of John's hand, before pocketing it quietly. "Mrs Hudson though – _rings_ – you might have been less obvious," he said annoyed to his landlady. "We were going to deal with one ring, as you are well aware."

"You knew, then?" said John frowning in her direction.

"I'm sorry - I had to tell him. Mrs Holmes tries to get me to take the ring - knowing Sherlock I'd be the first to be blamed if anything went missing," she said standing up, rolling her eyes at the pair with a sigh.

"Mrs Hudson's loyalty is impeccable," Sherlock said with a cheeky smile.

"So is mine," spat John irate, as Mrs Hudson rather flummoxed skipped out of the flat in a hurry. "I can't believe you, this whole thing was just some sort of game to you?"

"John, I said I had a plan. I was just intending to follow it. I never supposed the ring would fall into your hands-," says Sherlock, a small smile playing on his lips.

"What did you exactly think to do - you'd go off to Molly and ask her for it? And Irene, you've known she's been alive this whole time, then?"

"Yes, of course," said Sherlock smugly. "You thought she was dead. I don't know who is worse off here exactly."

"Right –_ right_ – so, is there anything else you haven't bothered to tell me? Some unwanted children, an unhappy marriage – a wife in the attic?"

"What did Molly say then?" said Sherlock ignoring John's rant. John gave a big sigh at this, squeezing his eyes shut, as he pinched his nose a little.

"She wanted me to give it to you just – Irene was in on it then? Since Molly certainly hadn't met her," said John frustrated.

"However tempting it was to play games with me – it was not as tempting as being debt free - I did save her life," said Sherlock slowly, looking at John's face puzzled.

"Yes, right, that's it – then – there's _nothing _more?"

"Mother most likely knows, unfortunately," Sherlock said shaking his head slowly.

"Well _I_ certainly didn't inform her," said John aghast.

"Irene kept the ring up too long, despite our agreement, and Mrs Hudson said _RINGS_," he said making a grimace. "A child could spot those flaws, not that I really expected it to give me any more than time."

"That doesn't mean she knows-," said John with a raised brow. "Wait – time?"

"Depending upon it she does, or else she wouldn't be texting with Mycroft," said Sherlock his lips pursed looking thoughtfully around the flat.

John just shook his head a little, before being addressed by his friend again, "John, did Molly say anything?"

"What about?" asked John.

"John, feigning to be ignorant doesn't suit you," Sherlock said with gritted teeth. "I rather like it when you're not pretending." John let out a derisive snort.

"Sherlock, you haven't actually been keeping all of your facts out either. This is the first time I know everything there is now-," at which John stops at Sherlock's inquiring face. "What?"

"Mycroft," he just says a grin creeping up on his face, "I knew he was hiding something, but obviously – he wants to- I've got to go-," starts Sherlock confidentially.

"Go where?" asks John.

"Dinner with the family," said Sherlock abruptly stalking off, at which John stood peeved on the spot, grimacing a little to himself, before running after his friend mentally thanking his wife for being understanding.


	14. The After Party

****A/N:**** Thank you for following, for commenting, and for generally being a reader of this plot - that only gets thicker and thicker. Hopefully the fog lifts even a little this chapter, or you're sitting right in the midst of it - one never can tell. I hope you enjoy none the less, as I am having great fun writing this (in the end that's what is important).

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><p><strong>14: The After Party: <strong>_Charades_

Text received 16:05

Dinner is at _L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon _18:30_. _

I think you are familiar with it.

I hope you come – Mother

Text answered 16:10

I thought you were against technology mother – SH

Text received 16:15

It has its benefits.

Better contact with my precious boys.

Mycroft has a cake he recommends there – Mother

Text answered 16:20

He's breaking his diet then – SH

Text received 16:22

It's low fat - Mother

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><p><em>11 JULY, 23:15<em>

The racket started at some point, she wasn't entirely sure when, but she could hear it. She was used to the noise, the loud banging, the occasional gunshots, the police raids, or mess at this point, which was something one did tend to disregard if ones tenant was Sherlock Holmes.

Martha Hudson just sat warily with a teacup in her hand and a biscuit in the other. She had involved herself already enough, she usually avoided these sort of things, or well pretended she didn't care, which meant involving herself.

It was during John's honeymoon she received the phone call from Mrs Holmes, causing herself to be fully involved.

"Martha?" said the silky voice of Mrs Elizabeth Holmes.

"Oh, it's you-," started Mrs Hudson with a grimace.

They had never been on the friendliest of terms.

"Yes, well Martha my dear," at which Mrs Hudson pursed her lips. "I was wondering if you could get the ring?"

"The ring?" enquired Mrs Hudson frowning.

"Yes, the one I gave to Sherlock."

"Shouldn't you ask him then?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end and a deep intake of breath.

"I'd rather he not know of it."

"Why is that?"

"Martha – please," said Mrs Holmes rather forcefully on the other line.

Mrs Hudson said, "Fine," and then they arranged for her to drop off the ring.

She had at first thought that it was something she was not going to bring up with Sherlock at all. In the end she thought it would be funnier if he knew.

There was quite a look of surprise on his face when she told him, at that point he hurriedly devised a plot, as he knew "That documentary has been giving her ideas, as the rest of the city," he sneered.

Soon enough a perfect duplicate was made and Mrs Hudson was made startlingly aware that she had one million pounds in her hand at one point.

"What do you suppose she'll use the ring for?" she asked.

"Feelings," he spat out mockingly.

John Watson returned of course, and was shown a scene where Sherlock was his usual erratic self. "Mrs Hudson, just be your regular self, and I will sort out of the rest." She had to admit that she was startled when Mrs Holmes informed her that Irene Adler was alive too, and soon enough Sherlock got her in on his own plot.

On her own part, Mrs Hudson felt he was working quite hard to avoid admitting his feelings, which was the thing Mrs Holmes wanted.

Mrs Hudson doubted he was fully prepared for the lengths his mother would go to win. She just continued drinking her tea in the privacy of her home, instead of bothering to join whatever chaos he had gotten himself into this time.

_11 JULY, 18:14_

They had arrived at _L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon _in Covent Garden. Of course Sherlock and John went through the back entrance, despite John's protests, but luckily the waiters recognized them easing their entry, "Is this a case, then? One of them murder-mysteries," said one of chefs wide-eyed in a conspiring tone.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped before smiling charmingly, "We do need your help. Do you have a table - out of sight?" he asked in more sympathetic tones.

"Yes, it is for our more special guests," said one of the waiters raising his brows at them, at which John let out of a derisive sigh, almost punching his fist in the air to show his wedding ring, before giving up all together, as Sherlock strode ahead of him. They got out covertly, shielded by unsuspecting dinner-guests, and large flower arrangements.

"They luckily won't be here before late," said Sherlock looking at his watch.

"Right, mind if I order something? I'm starving-," started John, looking at a menu the waiter handed him, as Sherlock just nodded ignoring John all together. "That's some prices, right – you're paying then?" Sherlock did not answer, "I'm going with a yes there. I've been through enough as it is."

"I didn't ask you to come along," said Sherlock, his eyes scanning the various dinner guests warily. "Or to eat."

John snorted, "Yes, right – like you didn't ask Molly to help you?"

Sherlock ignored the question, eyes narrowing, as he took in the various guests. "Well, that is surprising," he murmured, John just shook his head, ordering a rather large meal, before looking at his friend irritated.

"Sherlock, what exactly do you need time for?" asked John who's only reply was Sherlock shrugging off his dress jacket, while imperiously still keeping an eye on the surrounding guests who all peered at him curiously. "No answer for that then, so Molly's mad at you?" at which Sherlock's head turned hastily to John.

"What do you know?" he rather demanded.

John chuckled, shaking his head, while taking a sip of the water he'd gotten handed raising his brows at Sherlock.

"I rather like this, I've got to admit. You've been pretending this whole time, even making me believe that Mary was pregnant. Sherlock, I'm sorry – I am not telling," said John cheerily.

Sherlock furrowed his brows at his friend, "John – this isn't my fault, I didn't plan for this-," he said agitated.

"Yes, you did – now you just want to be here to get the upper hand on your brother-," said John knowingly.

"So he_ is_ keeping something secret? Thank you," said Sherlock smugly, scanning the area, "That much she told you at least."

"I really don't see the point of trying to hide out from them really," said John cautiously eyeing the guests.

"John, has it come to your attention that my mother gave me this meeting place for a reason? She has been playing us left and centre. She knew that the ring was a fake, but she didn't come out with it. Instead she texts on her phone with someone ("Wasn't it Mycroft?") – texts me about this place. Of course she is not going to make an appearance ("Then why are we here?")!" said Sherlock contemptuously eyeing the surrounding guests.

"Because, John - look who just entered," said Sherlock, now rather smug, as two women were being guided to their seats.

"Mary," John half-yelled in surprise, as the dressed up shapes of Mary Watson and Molly Hooper appeared chattily, being seated by a handsome young waiter. "Why are they here?"

"This place is near your place, and is also one that Molly is conveniently familiar to," said Sherlock with a frown.

"You're saying that your mother planned this?" said John realising just how stupid a question that was.

"I'm saying my mother_ paid_ for this," said Sherlock with pursed lips, as a bottle of Bollinger was brought to the ladies table, and the women looked delightfully at each other. "Her way of apologizing to Molly, by giving her a free dinner. She probably explained the entire situation - told Molly that I got the ring in return from you, and made it seem that I was saddened by the event – so she would sympathize."

"Molly doesn't look so – err – sad about it though," said John furrowing his brows as his mouth threatened to break into a grin, looking at Molly who threw her head back in laughter. "In a rather fancy dress, too."

"Mary's," said Sherlock without blinking.

John raised a brow at this, "Should we go over?"

"No," said Sherlock clearly thinking.

"You're reading their lips, aren't you?" John asked, as he saw Sherlock silently mouthing at the pair. "What are they talking about then?"

Sherlock looked frustrated, open mouthed, eyed John who looked at him expectantly, before saying, "Do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Wet her neck too much, apparently," said Sherlock.

John looked angry, "She's not saying that."

"Of course not. Mary's not the sort of woman, when with another woman to talk about her sex life at all. You know her quite well John."

John grimaced at Sherlock.

"We should just go over-," he said half-standing up, as Sherlock forcefully pushed him down in his seat again.

"I think not – we've finally coming to the _interesting_ bit of the conversation-," said Sherlock looking at the women in wonder.

One saw Mary's face look surprised, as Molly looked rather agitated.

"Doesn't look like a happy conversation exactly," said John with a smile.

"We should go," said Sherlock ignoring John.

"I've just ordered some food," said John alarmed, "I don't see the problem – we could just join them."

"Exactly-," said Sherlock grimly, and it was at that exact moment the other surrounding guests from every single table, not including theirs and the ladies – stood up, picking up their bags and whatnot. The chatting that had been going on died out entirely, as all the guests – simultaneously filed out – leaving them entirely on their own.

"What the bloody hell?" said John mid-whisper, staring at the now empty restaurant.

"Hired actors," said Sherlock with a frown. "I did say my mother enjoys theatrics."

"She likes to eat with the place empty then?"

"No, she just wants us to spend some quality-time," he said putting on his dress jacket hurriedly, as the waiter appeared by their table with a fine bow.

"Excuse me gentlemen, but would you like to share a table with the ladies? As you see we're quite short on guests, and it would be rather beneficial of you to be seated with them."

Sherlock quietly eyed the waiter, before raising himself prominently walking over to the ladies table – sitting down without a word. John followed suit giving his baffled wife a peck on the cheek.

"What are you two doing here?" asked Mary, while Molly sat besides her silently.

"We got a bit peckish-," said John with a grin. Mary furrowed her brows at this.

"You usually go for the kind of deep fried Chinese food. Not the decorated plate of vegetables. You're not the reason for _this_, since I'm all for the privacy, but this is quite a stretch," said Mary with a cheeky smile staring at the surrounding area of empty tables, which plates were being cleared off silently by waiters.

"Oh God," said Molly out of the blue throwing a napkin on the table. "They aren't _here_ – are they?" she asked horrified looking for her own mother.

"No, they won't be coming," said Sherlock, eyeing the waiter with immense displeasure.

"So – what's going on then?" asked John smirking at his wife.

"We decided to have a bit of fun, you know. We couldn't just sit around with a bag of crisps could we – while you lot are out having fun on mansion's and whatnot? – OK, everyone, but me, then," said Mary who received a kiss on the cheek from John, causing Sherlock to look positively nauseated, as Molly sat with crossed arms.

"I'm sensing that this is obviously not what everyone wanted, then?" enquired Mary in the silence that came.

"Why did you choose this place?" said Sherlock rather scathingly.

"We knew you were here," said Mary quite seriously causing Sherlock's eyebrows to rise, and John to laugh. "No, you git. We choose it, because – well – your mother was paying."

"We always go to this place," said Sherlock.

"I thought you didn't go to family dinners?" said John tilting his head in confusion. Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but just gave a quick smile instead.

"Oh," said Mary with a cheeky grin, eyeing Molly's red cheeks. "You know, I'm not as hungry as I thought. I might just settle for a bag of crisps and some good telly," she started eyeing her husband, who bit his lips in amusement.

"Yes, that would – be – a wonderful idea," said John grinning, before Molly even had a moment to properly reflect, or Sherlock had the chance to leave – the wife and her doctor scampered off awkwardly, leaving them alone at the table. The waiters thought quickly it seemed taking the cutlery and set of two glasses away, while Molly was left rather exasperated with Sherlock.

_11 JULY 18:42_

John and Mary Watson were both seated across the street from _L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon_ on a posh bench with "Fish and chips - I do admit that I like this better than the posh asparagus-food really," said Mary grinning, while John sat mouthing words, squinting his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"I'm – I'm – nothing-," said John leaning back on the bench, breathing in the cool air of the evening.

"That didn't look like nothing-," she said narrowing her eyes at him.

"I was trying to read their lips-," he said frustrated.

"From this distance John, that's a bit of a stretch, isn't it? I think we'll just wait for the outcome, even how mental that in itself is," she said smugly.

"I don't know what you mean," said John chuckling at his wife.

"We're sitting on a bench eating chips, while spying on your ex-flatmate on a – date – is it a date when two people are forced to be on their own by friends and family?" asked Mary looking thoughtful, blonde fringe in her eyes.

John pushed her hair aside "We could go home, you know," he said touching her soft cheek.

"Oh, Mr Watson – now you've come to your senses," she said with a raised brow.

"Molly popped in on us, I wasn't the one who stopped it-," he said leaning into her face for a kiss.

Mary slapped him away teasingly, laughing, as she said, "Sorry, I've got a short threshold for damsels in distress. Just like you can't stand Sherlock in distress. Oh – there they are - oh – _oh_-," said Mary gaping.

Molly was apparently storming out of the restaurant looking fuming, Sherlock came running after her, but at the moment he pulled for her hand - she slapped him right across the cheek. The detective looked taken aback, as the pathologist jumped into a nearby taxi, which drove off quite hurriedly.

Sherlock stood for a moment on the pavement, clearly thinking, before jumping into his own taxi heading the opposite direction.

"Shit," murmured John aghast and somewhat mortified for leaving his friend alone.

"That's not exactly what I had expected really," said Mary bemused, before John saw a sleek black car follow Sherlock's taxi.

"That must be Mycroft then. The Holmes' are obviously not good match-makers," he said staring after the car confused. "Did she seem angry to you?" he asked Mary, who pursed her lips.

"Molly was – well – she was upset, more about her mum – really – to tell you the truth – she didn't seem _that_ upset," said Mary with a sigh. "Not enough to slap anybody really. Not that she seems like that sort of person anyways."

"Well, I told Sherlock she was angry at him," started John biting his lip.

"Why on earth did you tell him that?"

"I wanted to let him think I knew something had happened. The fact that he asked me what I knew more than once says something," said John darkly.

"That doesn't mean it's a good idea, John, but I'm not entirely sure if that sort of thing – could have lead into _this_. Molly told me, well, the most of it, and he _did_ act like an arse, but the sort of arse you expect from Sherlock Holmes."

"Are you going to tell me then?"

"You lied using information you didn't have to weasel it out of your best friend," said Mary pointedly at John's rather guilty face, before slapping him on the knee, "Of course I am going to tell you."

_DAY FIFTEEN – 30 JUNE, 03:56_

She removed her pair of black high heels, while finally sitting down on the sofa in 221B Baker Street. Sherlock walked into the living room slipping off his tie, throwing it, so she caught it in her hands. There was an odd awkwardness silence that followed this now familiar gesture.

"Do you _want _something?" he says peering at her.

"I'm sorry?" she says caught off guard.

"Some clothes to wear to bed?" he enquires her, at which Molly opens her mouth, before just nodding quietly. "You don't use sleeping clothes."

"I usually – avoid it – in the – err – summer," she said with a brusque nod, avoiding all forms of eye contact, staring firmly at the tie she now had threaded in her hands. "A shirt will be fine, or anything – if you have it."

"There's no need," he says brushing her off.

They look at each other for a moment; he raises his brows at her hands, causing her to set the tie aside.

"I could just sleep on the sofa," she says breaking off the silence.

"I think Mr Black would be disappointed if I weren't to give you my bed. Also I think Mrs Hudson would be a bit surprised finding a naked woman on the sofa when she comes up here to tidy in the morning," said Sherlock with a quick smile.

Molly snorted, "She tidies then?"

"Mrs Hudson is the perpetual housekeeper," he says walking into the kitchen putting on the kettle.

"Are we having tea?" she asks surprised.

"It's too late for dinner," he says from the kitchen.

"Right," she says with a breath, hiding her yawn with a hand, before she catches sight of a curious tiny box on the table before her. "What's that?" she asks Sherlock who soon appears with two cups of tea, handing one of them to her. She can smell it is sweetened, he knew of course how she liked it, and she just smiled eyeing the box nosily awaiting his reply.

"That is a box with a ring," he says sitting besides her now.

"Oh," she says with a small nod.

It was a rather unfamiliar scenario, despite having caught it on occasion. Sherlock was entirely different when self-satisfied after a case, full of mirth, and smugness over a solved case – she had ever only caught sight of his changeable-self at Bart's and never over a cup of coffee (not that she needed reminding). "What kind of ring is that, then?"

"An engagement ring," he says without ceremony, causing her to choke on her tea, and him to take a careful sip of his.

"Why do you have an engagement ring?" she says finally not coughing.

"Is there a problem?" he says quirking a brow.

"No – I just – I never – well, oh, I – you know I am going to shut up now," Molly says rather heatedly taking a long sip out of her tea.

"You've been doing quite fine you know. Helping me-," he says contemplatively putting his cup on the table, as Molly kept her own cup huddled to her face trying to cover the flush of embarrassment.

"You're welcome," Molly says finishing her tea off in a hurry, hoping to get into his bedroom before any further humiliation.

"You complain less than John. He's always so tediously obsessed over the minor details of things, but you do that – understandably enough because-," he starts rattling off.

"Sherlock, do try to stop when you are ahead," Molly says interrupting his speech, saving them both the trouble.

"What?" he asks baffled.

"I've already had enough with you insulting me about that kiss," she says disparagingly.

"I never said I didn't enjoy it," he says, and she's about to retort, until she finds him seated so, as to having his entire body turned to hers. He's sitting imposingly straight, as he looks down on her – even on the sofa.

She blanches, staring at him wide-eyed, picking up her teacup like a shield in front of her, only realising that she emptied it. He grabs the cup from her hands, puts it down with a clatter on the table, before grabbing her hands.

She gaps at this action, yet not pulling away.

"Is this another one of your experiments?" she asks staring down on her hands being gently stroked by his larger elegant limbs. "Or diversion or what other words you have got to explain it?"

His hands rest on her pulse, eyes fixed on her, as she keeps hers fixed on where her hands are pleasantly placed, before tugging them gently away from him.

"I should go to bed," she says standing up from the sofa, finding him standing up with her. "Sherlock," she says looking up at him, before eyeing the box on the table "Why have you got an engagement ring, then?"

He looks at her intrigued at this, putting on a small smile, before saying, "It's a replica actually."

"You've got a_ replica_ of an engagement ring – why have you got a _fake_ engagement ring then?" she asks becoming properly curious now, as Sherlock looked if not rather displeased at her.

"In case of emergencies," he says in a seemingly bored tone walking off, while waving his hand off in a swift motion, before standing with his hands on his hips, turning around, "It was my mother who was following us tonight."

"What?" said Molly in shock, "Your mother – why on earth was your mother following us?"

"Rumours, suggesting imagery possibly. Like the rest of the press, or that ruddy documentary have been insinuating all of this time, perhaps Doctor Hooper?"

"Yes, well – call her off then." Molly says looking rather distraught, creases in her forehead now, as she stood fidgeting uncertainly. "There is nothing going on between us."

Sherlock looks at her, blue eyes fixed on her brown steady ones. "I would like to point out the well-calculated leap I took off at the top of Bart's some months back, or have you forgotten about that?" he sneered.

Molly furrowed her brows, "How could I forget? The point where you asked for my help, and disappeared, then? Or the fact that not once did you even try to talk to me when you actually did return – until John's bloody wedding," she snapped.

She glared at him; chin set, as he glowered at her.

"I am sorry if I was rather busy dealing with your ex-boyfriend," he says sardonically.

"He was never – we – we just watched the telly. Sherlock - are – are you jealous?" she retorts folding her arms.

"Why would I be jealous?" he spat hovering over her, blue eyes narrowed, as her chest heaved angrily. They stared at each other, faces contorted in anger, before that faded entirely – and they were just standing upon the threshold of admitting anything.

Without ceremony, rather inelegantly, against all odds the pair crashed together – lips locked, teeth clashing, noses colliding; tasting each other. She tugged at his shirt, as his kisses ran from her swollen lips to her collarbone, breathing erratic, as they crashed soundly into the wall – frantically touching each other with their hands and lips.

Molly breaks away - Sherlock looks at her astonished, "We – should – we – better," she starts breathlessly pinned to the wall, but she throws her hands around his neck; their mouths colliding together once more.

_11 JULY, 23:20_

Mrs Hudson pursed her lips as the sounds from upstairs were decidedly more pronounced. She had reasoned that she shouldn't interfere anymore, but what if it was trouble? Though she doubted she would find Sherlock with a gun in his hand – he promised to avoid that – which in the end caused her to put down her tea and biscuit, before gingerly walking up the steps.

She started to distinguish voices; "Are you sure they didn't follow me?" asked a rather familiar female voice.

"Quite certain," answered the familiar tones of her tenant.

"Well, I hope you're right and we fooled them. Serves them right, you know, but are you sure Mycroft is hiding something?"

"He's certainly hiding someone; I suspect a lover of some sort, though questionable as to who that could be, but I'd rather not talk of my brother – _Mrs Hudson_ - are you lurking on the steps again?" he said causing the land lady to halt in her tracks.

"I heard some – noises," she said, seeing the door to the flat slightly ajar.

"We'll keep it down Mrs Hudson – not to worry," said a happily sounding Sherlock Holmes, causing her to shake her head, before walking back downstairs reminding herself not to bother again – especially when Molly Hooper occupied Baker Street.


	15. Dinner for two

**A/N: **_In a world when i don't have an impending maths exam haunting my every step, am loaded with money so I don't need to work 6 days a week - I'd be quicker on the updates. Unfortunately this isn't so, so you could see if I were to put other things ahead of this - though admittedly my writing took a halt at this chapter. I shall try to be better, but thank you for your patience - your following and your reviewing. It certainly warms the heart of me!_

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><p><strong>15: Dinner for two: <strong>_You call it madness, but I call it love_

Text received 18:06

You're recording this? – Mummy

Text answered 18:12

It's only audio - MH

Text received 18:15

Have you recorded other places then? - Mummy

Text answered 18:17

Various places - MH

Text received 18:18

Darling, you haven't put anything up at the mansion have you? - Mummy

Text answered 18:20

No - MH

Text received 18:20

Where then? - Mummy

Text answered 18:21

I would never cross the threshold of your privacy - MH

Text received 18:22

Just the main rooms, then? - Mummy

Text answered 18:25

Yes - MH

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><p><strong>St Bart's, the lab,<strong>_ 2 JULY, 21.36_

_DAY SEVENTEEN_

Molly Hooper was standing looking if not rather nettled – she'd been delaying every single procedure at work, or well not delaying – more like forgetting. Every single thing she'd knew perfectly was done half-passable, her writing hand was unreadable on the paper-work, she'd break things, she'd bring forth the wrong body when asked, and she'd misread things – even managed to say that a male was a female, hadn't Lestrade been friendly enough to point out _the bits_.

Her head was elsewhere entirely, a foreign space of her mind, which she hadn't ventured in ages. Of course, it started with her waking up the day before in Sherlock's flat – entirely naked – entirely alone – finding her dress perfectly situated on a hanger in the bathroom, and her underwear oddly enough placed in Sherlock's chair – looking sat upon.

She only saw two cups of cold tea placed in the living room enough to understand that he'd had a guest. She fled 221b Baker Street – trying to get back into her flat, which was off-limits (until this morning) and stayed at Julie's who asked a terrible amount of questions ("Police business, can't really talk about it, you know, sort of top-secret thing.").

The truth was, this was the horrendous thing, which was why Molly Hooper was in such a state – she could not by any part of her remember the previous night. Not one shred. She remembered that they'd kissed. Yes, that was crystal clear imagery repeatedly swimming in her head with a ferocity levelling on crazed, dispelling all her hormones into a torrent of awestruck, but if the deed indeed had been done?

No, she did not know.

This was where she doubted its actual occurrence, or well – she didn't know. There had been drinks involved, great glasses of champagne on an empty stomach, but Sherlock was not a man to take advantage either. Still, she was naked, and from the obvious marks on her body – she was involved_ somewhat_. The idea that she had been drugged did strike her, yet she had no symptoms whatsoever – neither did she assume Sherlock was the sort of man who'd drug her – to bed as it was (he didn't need to either).

The fact that he was a man of that action did indeed take her off her guard and into a more fervent mind-set, which was one she'd been avoiding since the wedding had gone in the unexpected direction. Having not heard from him the day before, or the day that had been now – did indeed make the mind-set evaporate as quickly as it came.

For when she had recovered from the on-going shock of being in Sherlock Holmes's bedroom - Mrs Hudson who was tidying the cups away informed her, "He's popped off to Spain, a case, apparently. I'll have to tidy up after him of course. You've not given him any new bits, have you? I'd rather not have to defrost it out of the freezer. That hand was a bit too much last time," she said grimacing.

Mrs Hudson never asked her why she was there, what she had intended, and why she asked questions. This was the sort of open-mindedness that she assumed the landlady had over John Watson's relationship with Sherlock. That did indeed cause quite a stir in Molly's mind - as she stood in a gown in the middle of Baker Street at a loss of what to say, but Mrs Hudson just gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek, and walked off with some rubbish in her hand. Molly knew that his phone was indeed functioning, as Lestrade had been texting him frequently during a show-and-tell Molly would jokingly say – "You're texting with Sherlock then?"

"Yes, he's in Spain. Apparently on some case of his brother's," said Lestrade looking disgruntled as he pocketed his phone. "This case is probably not as interesting if he had been here, so at least I'm getting results," he said with a snort, before looking up at Molly who was pursing her lips, "You OK?"

"Fine, you know, just not used to – not being – useful to him, something I should be happy about. I can't do the work here and the cases at the same time – even how – exciting – they are," she said if not rather solemnly, despite herself.

Lestrade left not long after leaving her to her own thoughts, which were ones she did not want to entertain. Of course it was in the myriad of sequences that replayed in her head, from being pressed upon the wall, touching his tousled dark curls, frantically getting into his bedroom, slamming various lamps and objects onto the floor, before they hit the bed with a thump.

The passionate deep kissing, going from mouth, to cheek, to neck, to chest, and so forth – mixed between, constantly caressing – touching his cool skin, feeling his breath on her face, nibbling his ear, whispering into her ear, wrapping her legs around him, nails digging in his back, moaning, biting, touching, groping – made her recall one very important thing – amidst the kisses and caresses even how evenly distributed they had been – "I fell asleep," she said in the empty lab of Bart's gasping in horror.

**Holmes Estate, **_10 JULY, 23:45_

The bedroom was lovely, matching the rest of the house, except there was less modern objects occupying this room – it looked taken out directly from a Jane Austen novel with it's four poster bed, delightful paintings, flower-patterned wallpaper, vanity-mirror and a matching stool, which a frazzled looking Molly Hooper sat upon brushing her hair with a silver hairbrush.

She put the comb tenderly down by the mirror, before giving a sigh – with a candle nearby, as the lights were still out.

The similarities to her favourite BBC adaptations were immense, placed in the home of a woman who was pushing her into the direction of matrimony, and a haughty dark-haired man she disliked. Snorting, she stood up, and walked over to shut the door to the balcony. The view from the balcony itself was extraordinary, if one ignored the hard downpour of rain – or the gazebo in the distance.

She sighed snapping the doors to the balcony shut; yet it wasn't the only sound she heard. A distinct thump was heard following a "click".

Molly furrowed her brows, looked about in the empty bedroom, before her gaze fell upon the tall mahogany cabinet standing against the wall.

It was a large cabinet, covered with carvings of fairy-tale creatures; centaurs bounding about with fairies dancing around their hooves - the sort of a thing a child would covet. The sound came from inside the closet, which she admitted was quite large. She had opened it up earlier, it was empty then - ignoring the blue silk robe she now wore.

Could there be anyone inside, then? She laughed, her laugh echoing in the large bedroom – the fact that the only source of light was her candle wasn't one to make her calm. They'd asked if she wanted something larger, but she had intended to go to bed. Yet there she was slowly walking towards the large cabinet, standing quietly in the room.

There was a knock on her bedroom door.

She gasped, laughing over how silly she was. The knock continued. She brushed it off, hurriedly opening the doors to the cabinet to prove herself sane.

Old houses made constant sounds, creaks in every nook and cranny she told herself, though when she opened the doors to find a pair of sharp blue eyes peering back at her – she was without a doubt alarmed.

She slammed the doors shut, hands clutching at her chest, while her mind raced – the knocks harder on her bedroom door, as she came to terms with the fact that Sherlock Holmes was hiding inside her closet.

"Molly?" said the voice outside her bedroom door.

Her eyes darted from the cabinet to the door, before she scampered off with a furiously beating heart to the on going knocking. Molly put on a beaming smile opening the door to Mrs Holmes who was bearing a candle in one hand, a wine glass in the other and an un-lit cigarette in her mouth.

"Mrs Holmes – what are you doing here?" said Molly sounding a bit more out of breath than needed, trying to keep her eyes from heading into the direction of the cabinet.

Mrs Holmes smiled at her, "Could you hold this?" she said a little bit muffled handing Molly the wine-glass, which Molly admittedly felt tempted to drink of, except she knew by her elated head that she had enough for the evening.

Molly knew that there was no chance that Mrs Holmes would demand to see the interior of her cabinet, yet she wouldn't put it past her. "Yes, of course, right," said Molly taking the glass, as Mrs Holmes put the candle aside by the vanity mirror.

"I'll avoid smoking inside here," said Mrs Holmes putting the cigarette by the mirror, before fishing something from her pocket. "Geoffrey told me you'd gone to bed, quite early don't you think?"

"Yes –well-," started Molly, eyes landing on the cabinet, as her palms sweated.

"I thought it would be a wonderful opportunity to give you this," said Mrs Holmes taking hold of Molly's free hand – putting an object inside her palm.

"Of course, yes – thank you," said Molly with a hurried smile, before realising what she'd just accepted – the ring. There it was again, haunting her every move. She shook her head, as Mrs Holmes herself looked astonished at the acceptance.

"No – err – sorry, I – I thought it was something else," she added hurriedly in after-thought trying to give it back.

Mrs Holmes looked at her in baffled amusement, "Do you have any other rings I should know about?"

Molly turned a great shade of crimson, "No – of course not – no – no – I just – I forgot, a bit too much red wine, I think. Yes, I'm a bit – off my head at the moment," she said holding Mrs Holmes's glass of wine, almost taking a swig out of it, before Mrs Holmes took it back.

The older woman just took a sip of the wine smugly, before saying with a dainty wave of the hand, "I honestly do mean it as a gift. It's also very pretty ("Yes, well-,") and will definitively be of no use in this household. To tell you the truth, I'm quite sick of looking at it, I am not giving it to Sherlock – he never kept a good enough eye on it. ("But he might-,")"

Molly knew if she accepted it, his mother would be off, pleased, but she would be off – and she could question the consulting detective who hid in closets now.

"I still can't accept this," said Molly with finality.

Yet Mrs Holmes just brushes this statement entirely aside, gets hold off her own candle, and says, "You'll just be its keeper. It'll be entirely safe in your hands." With that she left, slamming the door in her wake, causing Molly to stare at the ring yet again, and now possibly having to face questions of her own.

She ran to the cabinet, about to wrench it open again, but now prepared for no surprises – when another knock came. "What?" she snapped into the silent bedroom, storming off to the door rattled, finding John Watson in the darkened hallway with two glasses of wine and a grin. She took one of the glasses without question, in complete silence, and drank the contents hurriedly – anything to get John out off her hair as quickly as possible.

"Did you want to talk about something?" she asked hurriedly handing him the empty glass back, as he furrowed his brows at her in astonishment.

"No - I was just – they told me you'd gone to bed – I thought I'd see if you were OK – brought glasses – err – a bit dark in the hall though - met Sherlock's mum on the way here. Did she talk to you about something specifically?" he starts, catching glimpse of the ring in her hand confused, "Are _you_ OK, then?"

"Yes, I'm fine, you know – it's just been a very long day," she said nervously clenching her fist around the ring, before holding both her hands behind her back. He looks at this action with interest, but brushes it aside.

John chuckled, "I know, I thought I'd have a quiet day in, and instead I found the headlines with your name on it. Mary sends her best - or well she would if I could reach her."

"I don't think she'll be mad though," said Molly at John's rather nervous looking expression. "She doesn't really strike me as one who doesn't get you and Sherlock." John snorted.

"I'm just glad she knew me properly before Sherlock returned," he said with a smile walking inside the bedroom with the glasses in his hands. Molly frowned when he had her back to her, casting a glance at the closet.

"Yes, you've got that to your advantage," said Molly with a small curt nod. "But you know – I_ am_ rather tired-," just as those words were uttered a sound was heard from the cabinet. John's head darted to the closets general direction.

"What was that?" he asked.

"Oh, you know – these old houses – they've got creaks-," she said all-too hurriedly.

"It sounded like it came from that-," he said pointedly gesturing to the cabinet.

"No, I distinctively heard it from – err - upstairs," said Molly flushed, but John was walking to the closet now. She tried to run ahead of him, but he took to opening the doors. Molly gasped hands clutched at her face, as the cupboard was revealed - to be empty.

"You've got to be right then," said John with raised brows, but he looked curiously at Molly's now relieved face. "Are you sure you're okay, then?"

"Yes, yes, I'm good – I just – I've got – I should never watch scary movies-," she started, at which John looked bemused, but soon enough she started to guide him out of her bedroom.

He looked at her in surprise, "You sure?"

"Yes, yes, very," she said, as she finally got him out of her room.

He stood looking at her from the threshold unsurely for moment, before saying, "Well – goodnight then."

"Night," she said briefly, and he walked off.

Molly shut the bedroom door with relief, turning to look at the cabinet, but a voice came from her bed, "You could have offered him the candle. John's never been good at navigating himself in the dark – he's better than most, but there are valuable artefacts in the hallway."

There sitting quite confidently on her bed was Sherlock with a satisfied expression on his face.

"Why are you in my bedroom? Or – how – _how_ – were you in the cupboard – then you weren't?" she said rather distraught, gesturing quite wildly with her hands from the closet to the consulting detective.

"A trap-door," he said standing up from her bed, striding towards the cabinet– showing her the entrance he'd taken, "I frequently used it as a child." She walked forward and looked into the other room for second, which did indeed look like her bedroom except masculine and more modern. There was no coincidence that her bedroom was right besides that of Sherlock Holmes's.

"Right," she said rather slowly peering at him cautiously, "You're still in my bedroom though," she added staring up at him expectantly, before gesturing to the exit. "Use that or the cabinet, whatever's your favourite exit that is."

He just quirked a brow at her, those blue eyes of his twinkling, as she felt quite naked all of a sudden standing in just her blue robe. Mrs Holmes or John had not made her feel this nervous, no, and she was also simultaneously not angry with those two.

"Yes, I had hoped we could continue our conversation. You seemed to be at a rush to leave before we finished it," he said with a quick smile. "Geoffrey did indeed cut our conversation short, I had a feeling you might have had something to say."

"I thought that you apologising was a good note to end it on, or do you want to have more to apologise for?" she said with a frown. "Could you please leave Sherlock?"

"No," he just said, without a smile this time – his expression serious. He hesitates for a moment, "Molly, I am not afraid. If there's one thing I'm afraid of, this is certainly not it."

Molly looked at him confused, as his eyes are sincere and warm. "Sorry-," she starts, mouth half-open, her expression hardens, "I can pretend that nothing has happened, if you're willing to do the same – isn't that what you said? Or have you forgotten again?"

He looks at her rather guiltily at this, not opening his mouth while she rather angrily goes on - "I'm not particularly fond of being ignored, then insulted in front of people. I think that pretending nothing's happened is one of your more brilliant ideas," she said rather heatedly crossing her arms. "One moment you're being very sweet, then you insult me, and then to top it off – even when I tell you not to contact me – you send idiotic text messages demanding me to help you?" she said, as Sherlock looked frightfully amused when she mentioned the texts.

"A bit of a change in demeanour, don't you think?" he says, smile playing at his lips. "As you say – one moment – I change entirely, figuratively – going from fiery – to icy, which considering is something you should be reliably familiar with already. I put on an act. Consider when we were alone together to that of the one with Lestrade. That display was primarily at the benefit of the nosy detective inspector haunting our every move."

"What?" she said perplexed. "You did that intentionally? Sorry?"

Sherlock looked smug. "Remember when I said my mother was following us. You found that ring in Baker Street, a ring that is an exact copy of the said ring in your hand right now. I have been planning this for some time, I am sorry that I didn't inform you, but I knew you'd be more convincing without knowing. Nobody knew, except Mrs Hudson and Irene Adler ("Irene Adler?"). At first, when I caught glimpse of my mother at the party I was convinced that she was following us. It didn't surprise me, but this isn't about me – not entirely so – my dear brother is also being forcibly followed. He's hiding something. It might be minor, but mother does find it of interest," he said reeling it off, like a speech he'd been privately rehearsing. "I for one have to admit that I am curious too."

There's a knock on the door, Molly looks at it startled for a second. She frowned in turn, confused at his statement, "What?"

"Ask your mother of her employment-," he said hurriedly, as if it were of great importance to know her mother's job.

"My mother doesn't work-," she starts furrowing her brows. "Just leave – _go_ – before anyone finds you here," she says as the knocking continues, pushing him into the direction of the closet, as she stared teeth on the edge at the bedroom door.

She turns her head back to Sherlock, who looks at her thoughtfully for a moment, pulls her in by her waist, causing her to gasp, as he leans down onto her lips.

She parts her lips automatically, despite herself, angry, happy, and sad simultaneously – as they taste each other yet again. His hands are soft on her waist, grasping her firmly towards him, before he pulls away.

"Ask her," he says disappearing into the cabinet.

She slams the doors shut; her shaking hands on the handles, before taking a deep breath. She stands mystified by it, hearing the distant knock, before finally walking off opening up for her third guest. Her third visitor was the well-mannered butler Geoffrey who gave a curt nod at her when she finally opened the door.

"Miss Hooper - I was just wondering if you'd be needing this?" he inquired holding out a key in his gloved hand.

"A key?" she said staring at it, then him, as he just gave a small nod.

"Yes, to the cabinet. Madam might not be aware of its usages, but I am not unfamiliar to it myself. If you were to perhaps need said key, I wouldn't be disinclined to give it to you, as a relief possibly?" he enquired.

"Oh, right - _thank you_?" she said flabbergasted.

He gives a tiny bow, before disappearing off with the candle. She shuts the door, hoping for no other guests to appear, as the latter would have to be her mother. Taking the key, she locks the cabinet, before finally going to bed – her head clouded with the dark haired man and the ring.

**L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon, **_11 JULY, 18:37_

Once Mr and Mrs Watson had left the restaurant the air was filled with meaningful stares – one mouth was shut firmly, and the other was chewing pieces of fresh bread. Blue met brown, but no one spoke. Molly pursed her lips, dropping the bread aside, opening her mouth - just as the waiter appeared putting the plates with their favourite meals down.

Sherlock just raised a quick brow, before trying to return the plate – only knocking over the rather large flower centrepiece on the table – water flowing onto the white cloth, soaking it in, but the waiter seemed more worried about the plant itself – scuttling off with it in a hurry, barely touching the wet table. Molly looked after the running waiter, before she found herself finally being addressed by Sherlock, "We have little time before he returns with the device."

"Device?" she said in astonishment.

"Listening device in the plant. Mycroft's car is parked on the outside, besides John and Mary across the street. Notice it?" he said not turning around – eyes darting to the sides just.

"Yes-," she said with furrowed brows, as she'd recognise those cars anywhere. Mycroft was not one for subtly, though any attempt did disappoint, as his little brother would regularly uncover the truth.

"You asked your mother then-," he said with a small smile.

"Mycroft came to the office," she quipped in return.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair in surprise, yet he looked sincerely entertained, "Oh - it must be serious," he said looking pensive.

"So you're telling me – correct me if I'm wrong – that you insulted me just to get to know your brother's secret?" she asked leaning onto the table in a whisper.

"Well, it was the easiest way to keep you at a distance, and confuse Lestrade who was observing us," he said with an arched brow. "Considering the fact that Mycroft is trying to divert all attention to us says something."

"Right – Sherlock – there's this and there's that. Just to get an upper hand on your brother - you made me mad. You could have told me-," she said annoyed.

"I am telling you now, when the time is right," he said pointedly.

She opens her mouth, about to ask -

"Yes," he said as if this was the obvious answer, making a face – she called it – the face he usually displayed when he thought she was being silly. A face she'd only seen ever used in front of her or John. "Of course, I am not afraid, I said it last night. I would have made a more _pressing_ commitment - had you not locked the cabinet."

"I'm glad I locked it, even if what you said was a lie – doesn't mean it doesn't come from some source of truth," she said sadly.

He just looks at her with genuine doubt, before a look of surprise haunts his features. For he sees that she believes those things about herself, as she shrinks ever so little in her seat, but he sees that it isn't this that makes her mad. No, she's not even properly mad - she seems more nervous. He is used to her being as such around him, but this was nerves of a different nature. He took a mental-note of this.

His hand is close to hers, but he does not touch her. "Molly – in five minutes, I need you to run out of the restaurant and slap me when I grab after you-," he said without a hint of amusement.

She blinks at him furiously, staring at the surrounding empty restaurant, expecting someone to jump in agreement with her over the absolutely insane notion. "Are you serious?" she said in his silence.

"Yes, and I am sorry-," he said, but he did not seem to be apologizing for what he'd done. She looks at him confused, until she sees the waiter returning looking relieved with the flower arrangement.

"Sorry about that, bit of an incident," he said putting it down upon the table again, without attempting to dry the wet cloth.

Molly looks at Sherlock who's warm expression is entirely gone, a cold exterior put on, as he tosses his napkin on the table in what seems to be displeasure.

"Has my mother ordered all our meals in beforehand, then? From the appetizer to the dessert – emptying an entire restaurant just to have us be alone – quite dramatic even for her," he snarls, quite a change in demeanour. His speech is marked, his diction perfect, as she almost starts to babble rather erratically herself. She realises, eyes going from the waiter, to the flowers, and to the man before her – that some family feuds were entirely childish, but the Holmes' family did indeed bring it to an entirely different level.


	16. Engagements

**A/N: **It's four in the morning here in good old Norway, I except my mother to launch a nuclear torrent of harsh words when she figures out where I am. Thank you to those who read and comment and fave and follow - it is horribly appreciated and does indeed help me write this ordeal (especially comments). Luckily I haven't given you one riddled with spelling-mistakes. Blame it on my heavy-lids. I hope you like, love, hate or rejoice. I know not, read on at least. Thank you for your patience - may it grow with time.

UPDATE: In case you get confused, **the days** I am referring to are the three weeks, which had Sherlock and Molly working together. That consists of 21 days if you aren't quick on the counting, like me, if that makes the time-jumps easier. The current date is the 12 of July, and John returned on the 10th of July. Hope that helps. I suggest also not reading my fic very late too. You need your sleep.

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><p><strong>16: Engagements:<strong> _Our love affair_

_EXCERPT FROM THE SUN_

**BUFF BOFFIN IN SPAIN by Louisa Faire**

The infamous Sherlock Holmes was recently spotted in Spain on the beach of Islas Cies in Galicia without his trademark deerstalker, and is certainly much better without most of it. The shocker is that the consulting detective is indeed single - ladies, but I don't think he'd need to deduce anyone's knickers to get them in a twist.

He might have reportedly been sighted working with a Doctor Molly Hooper, but it is stated that it is clearly one-sided. Luckily for that! It won't be a surprise if one were to find him at the hands of someone quite lady-like, as the man himself is not from a poor-background whatsoever. With a brother in the government, we're not surprised to see the man donning the usual Spencer Hart effortlessly. The detective has class –we just hope he has more cases where he's got to get his kit off!

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><p><strong>DAY EIGHTEEN – 3 JULY<strong>

_DIOGENES CLUB, 09:18_

Mycroft Holmes had just been handed a bunch of newspapers, which had been pressed for his comfort. He gave a self-satisfied smirk on receiving them. The day had been taxing to say the least – every single worry pressed upon his shoulders, as usual, and he'd have to tidy up the mess. There was nothing to it at the moment, or so to speak, than to drink a cup of perfectly attended to tea, as he took to his reading.

He'd heard his brother had gone out of the country for one of his outings, which wasn't unusual. The fact that he was indeed scantily dressed was something he was going to ignore, and so he was assuming he'd be skipping ahead of those particular pages. Except something caught his eye - there it was a blistering word, a country more or less –_ Spain_. He gaped for a moment, halting at the page, before folding the newspaper more hurriedly than intended. He stood up quietly from his seat, buttoned his dress jacket, before walking with pressurised steps into another room.

Taking a great breath with a uncompromising expression on his face - he picked up his cell-phone, put on a pleasant expression and said in the cheeriest of tones, "Mummy – _yes_ – hello – it's me - are you aware that Sherlock is having relations with Molly Hooper? Oh, yes the pathologist."

_NETTUNO, ROME, ITALY, 13:45_

John Watson sighed; they were on a beautiful pearly white beach, which was the sort of thing any man would want. He was exceedingly chuffed, that he was - the only distress was the sand that would lurk itself into various irksome bodily parts, but he was despite himself exasperated.

His phone had been going off repeatedly the entire day, causing him to be more peeved, as the texts were also not from his friend. No, they were from everyone else.

"What's Sherlock doing now?" asked Mary in a bored tone not looking up as the phone buzzed repeatedly. She was wearing great sunglasses, which hid her ever-constant amusement over her new husbands vexations.

"He's apparently been to the beach himself-," said John with a sigh leaning back on his striped chair – the book in his hands quite forgotten – replaced with his mobile phone.

"Oh," said Mary righting herself up now in her chair, sunglasses perched on the top of her head.

"Yes, apparently he's in Spain-," John said with a brief nod putting the phone aside.

"Spain?" she repeated in surprise.

"Spain, yes," he remarked. "Spain, where Mycroft was ages ago apparently, and now Sherlock's on the beach - in Spain."

Mary blinked in surprise, dropping the sunglasses on her eyes again, as her mouth quirked upwards -

"I'm surprised he's not showed up here then, but he's _stopped _texting you – hasn't he?"

"Yes," said John sounding rather grim.

"So you're not curious then?" she asked biting her lip.

"What? Why would_ I_ be curious?" he said sounding aghast.

"You've been spending most of our trip complaining – oh no - _not_ complaining - saying that you two never go abroad?" said Mary who lifted up her sunglasses again, before quirking a brow at her husband, who frowned at her in turn, "I thought maybe that's why you can't get past page sixteen there-," she said gesturing to his book.

"I'm not – I'm on page 38 now," he said affronted holding up the book demonstratively, "I've just – _now _he's got the interesting ones, you know – of course that happens while I'm gone-," he said if not rather sulkily. "When I'm home – there's the idiotic cases – which ends up with him snapping people's heads off."

"Yes – horrible - you're just here on your honeymoon stretched out on the beach. I'm sorry if that John Grisham novel isn't as interesting, John. I promise the body-count increases the longer you read," she said grinning. "Also there'll be enough entangled bodies come the night."

John looked at her; eyes crinkled up, and mouth in a toothy grin.

"Now shut up - read your book - and let's get pissed in the afternoon. I'm already ahead of you with three glasses," she said a serious expression about to take a sip from her drink only to be interrupted by his mouth.

_ST BART'S, LONDON, 18:45_

The doors sprang open; as DI Lestrade barged in without breath, "Don't mention the papers," he said grinning, before putting on a mock-serious expression. Molly Hooper looked up at him from her microscope in surprise, and only proceeded to smile, as she continued her work without interruption. The man himself, the buff detective walked in, eyes narrowed as he took the lab in, but his eyes did not dart into her direction. He seemed to be more interested in the textures of skin her hands were at work with, which wasn't unusual.

"Like the deerstalker?" said Molly without looking up from the microscope.

"Sorry?" said Lestrade who uneasily eyed Sherlock whose gaze was particularly unreadable.

Molly looked up, "Is this something you'll be known for then – the _fit_ detective?" Lestrade rubbed his temples, as Sherlock walked more prominently into the lab towering to her side, putting on that famous cheeky wide-grin of his, which she avoided looking at.

"You have read the papers then?" Sherlock asked, as Lestrade just stood in the back snorting.

"Barely – everyone's more or less using the paper as wall-paper in the canteen," said Molly not looking up from her microscope.

"Yes, well it was an important case," he retorted. "Important cases do need attending to once in a while. Not all interesting ones all take place at home, though it would be delightfully easier if everyone did take place in Baker Street."

"A bit messier perhaps, that flat's already in a state," Lestrade chimed eyeing the pair curiously.

"So – what do you need then?" asked Molly sheepishly finally looking up at the steely blue gaze that hit her.

"A body, a Mrs Coulson – I'm sure you're familiar with her," said Sherlock with a quick smile.

"No, she's Grayson's," she said with a wide grin in return. "He's also not busy, just doing paper-work, I however got loads to do."

"Grayson, then?" he said with clear distaste.

"Yes," she said raising her brows smugly.

"You aren't tired I hope?" asked Sherlock who briefly touched her shoulder. Molly frowned at him.

"No, I'm not – I'm – I'm quite fine, but – I am busy – at work, and Grayson I'm sure will be of great help, don't you think Greg?" she said directing her attention to the ever watchful Lestrade who gave several nods.

"Yes, sure, I know him – he doesn't like Sherlock, but he does like me – which isn't unusual really. Come on now, Mr Sex, let's go, before the rest of the ladies clamour for your autograph," he said holding open the doors, gesturing to Sherlock who strode off with great steps, before he said, "Not long to John returns. I suppose you'll be happy to see that day." Lestrade than proceeded to look at her pointedly with raised brows, before walking off.

She stared at the closed doors for a second, snapped off her gloves, and groaned loudly in the lab. It was then, amidst the torrent of swearwords that she received a text. She cautiously brought her phone up, and was rewarded with the man causing the fury -

_Come to Baker Street after work - SH_

Her face turned a great shade red, as she slammed the phone on the table. The mobile vibrated once more -

_It is important -SH_

She snorted derisively at this.

_I will enter your flat unannounced if you don't - SH_

The fact that she was half-shaking when she answered his text with an "OK" did not cross her mind whatsoever, as her lips were reminded of their previous encounter.

_221 B BAKER STREET, 21:02_

Molly was fidgeting, fidgeting frantically, as she sat constantly picking up her silent mobile phone from her handbag. There she sat perfectly situated on his sofa, and he wasn't there. The dark haired man was not present in his flat, and she knew that he knew her timetable. If there was one thing she knew him for – he was punctual. Yet there he wasn't, when she'd asked Mrs Hudson of his whereabouts she'd given her a quick brush-off, "Oh, you know he's probably gallivanting off on some case of his – he's been quite on fire so to speak – coming back from Spain and all. That case he had with his brother must have gone quite well." Molly had not given in to the urge, which fell as she'd seen all of his objects unguarded. His skull, which she heard mentioned, or the odd books that she herself were familiar to – he had an unusual habit of stealing things of her. Not that she ever complained over it, sometimes she specifically let things lie about in the lab, because she knew he liked them. That was before, this was now, and it was tempting to bring some of her more important books back.

This however required her getting into his bedroom – not entirely unfamiliar – yet terribly scary in its empty form, without its master present. Yet, with handbag at the ready she braced herself taking quick hurried steps into the bedroom, which was dark. She turned on the lights, marvelling over the fact that the room was least cluttered than the rest, and stared at the bookshelf with a grin. She recognised the spines instantly, and perused soon the books, jamming some of them into her luckily large enough handbag. It was then she caught sight of the familiar box, the one she'd seen the ring in, and picked it up holding it up in her hands, as she dropped her handbag on the floor with a thud. She would probably have to let some of them stay, until she could find another appropriate moment to pinch them back. If she were to return that was, she thought, as she opened up the jewellery box only to find a completely unfamiliar ring. "What?" she yelped. This was unlike the false one she had found, which she had not thought of one shred. That ring was gaudy, clumsily in contrast to this ring with a purple gleam to it, and even – real. What did Sherlock Holmes have this one for?

"Stealing - Doctor Hooper?" drawled the familiar voice behind her. "I would have thought that they paid you enough at Bart's. No, need for shiny diamonds in your line of work perhaps?"

She dropped the box with a thud straight into her handbag, but before she could retrieve it flustered as she was – Sherlock grabbed for her handbag looking at her appraisingly, before tutting loudly. "Caught red-handed – the books I can understand," he said yanking the books out of her handbag, before throwing them on the bed. "This one however-," he added with a raised brow plucking out the jewellery box out from her handbag, which he handed back to her. "Is quite important to me."

"It is mine though-," started Molly who gaped at her own mistake, "The books – the books are mine – I'm not one for jewellery, remember?" she snapped.

"I acquired those books long ago, why is it suddenly important for you to have them back – you never made a fuss when I first took them," he said with raised brows.

"Did you start wearing jewellery then?" she quipped.

He smirked at her, jerking his head to the books on the bead, which she soon jammed back into her handbag. They looked at each other for a moment, brown on blue, as she broke the silence, "Have you got anymore rings laying about then?"

"Are you asking?" he said.

She glared at him, "So why am I here exactly?"

"I don't know, Doctor Hooper. Do you always enter men's bedrooms unannounced?" he retorted with ease.

"You weren't here," she said pointedly. "You can't expect me to sit waiting up for you all evening."

"Do you do this everywhere? An invitation doesn't give you right to snoop in other people's worldly possessions, even if some of those belongings were previously yours," he said, his eyes sparkling now.

"Why have you got a real ring then?" she asked looking down on the box in his hands.

He looked at her questioningly.

"I can spot a real one - my mum has an obsession with jewellery," she said briefly. "That one in particular would probably be the budget of a city."

"I won't let her get her hands on this one then," he said with a hasty smile twirling the jewellery-box up in the air smugly.

"Are you going to tell me then?" she said pointing at the box.

"Tell you what," he enquired.

"Why you've got another ring? Or the other one for that matter – you never said," she asked curiously.

"Emergencies," he said looking rather bored now.

"What?" she said baffled.

"I did say - I said - emergencies. You might be quicker on the uptake, but you've certainly got an unsteady memory. You might want to have that looked in on."

"What kind of emergencies involve false rings and real ones then?" she asked scathingly.

He snorts at this looking at her intrusively for a moment, as the proximity is close as always. She swallowed unintentionally, looking up at him feeling rather reluctant for a second, as he just continued looking at her mutely.

"Sherlock – Mycroft is here, you told me to tell you - I've told you - now I'm off to Jane's," cried Mrs Hudson from the living room. Molly blanched stepping back from Sherlock, as Sherlock's brows knitted together.

He soon darted out of the bedroom in a speedy pace, quickly followed by her shuffling after him if not rather gawkily – "I better leave then," she said, as he started to look about the flat – the jewellery box still in his hand.

"Yes," he said looking occupied. "Yes – _yes _– Mycroft – you better go. We'll-" he said looking at her properly for a moment. He narrowed his eyes for second, before he broke the air between them giving her the oddest of hugs. She froze entirely at the contact, for it was the least passionate of hugs she'd encountered and the stiff kiss she received on her cheek did not help.

"I – yes – right-," she said clearly rattled when he released her, before she bounded out of the flat almost colliding head-first into Mycroft Holmes who gave her a brief nod, as she ran out of the flat feeling silly.

_MOLLY HOOPER'S FLAT, 21:51_

She sat with a bang on her new beige sofa, before cuddling her cat Toby who looked at her with appreciation. "Hello – odd night – do you trick the ladies Toby? I hope not," she said with a snort hearing her phone ring from her bag. "Who could that be? Am I going to head into his flat for another _chat_, then?"

She rummaged in her bag, her fingers hitting something unexpected and she pulled her hand back in shock. Molly righted herself up on the sofa, looked for a second at her bag, before saying, "Toby – it can't be-," to her cat who only observed her quietly, as is to be expected.

"It is," she said half-gaping when she brought forward the jewellery box, which seems to have slipped itself into her bag again.

"No-," she mouthed opening it up horrified staring at the ring she'd just observed not long ago, with the phone still going off in the background.

_MOLLY HOOPER'S FLAT, 12 JULY, 00:39_

Alice Hooper looked nervously at her daughter, giving a bit of a sigh, as Molly in turn looked at her expectantly. She wanted her mother to tell her, properly and detailed of what was going on – and why she was under the employee of Mycroft Holmes.

"Are you going to tell me then?" Molly asked when her mother didn't go on.

"Hold on – _hold on_ – I'm a bit old love," said Mrs Hooper with a bit of a chortle.

"You're not senile mum. Just tell me - will you?" said Molly gruffly.

"Fine - so – there's this – rumour going on. Well, not a proper rumour, but – you know-," mumbled Mrs Hooper rather erratically, clearly not going for the straightforward reply, as she usually would.

"Mum," repeated Molly getting irritated by the second, "I can handle Sherlock being like this, because that's him. But could you just tell me?"

"Let me go on then, it isn't helping with you telling me off in the midst of my story," said Mrs Hooper affronted at her daughter's cheek.

"Sorry," said Molly laughing being properly amused now, as she could see her mother took it quite seriously.

"Where you've _really_ been?" asked her mother eyeing her curiously for a moment, taking in the dishevelled hair, and the general look of her daughter.

"None of your business. Now, go on-," started Molly rather flushed now.

Mrs Hooper clapped her hands in delight, "You haven't been at Mary's have you," she said cheekily.

Molly's smile dropped, "Mum, honestly – stop trying to distract us away from your new job, or else I'll be asking the proper questions."

"What is that then? I am your mother you know," said Mrs Hooper mock-seriously.

Molly rolled her eyes at that, "What you were looking for in my flat, then?" she said.

"How did you-," started Mrs Hooper alarmed. "Fine – _fine_ – so, you know that Mycroft was in Spain a while back?" she continued with a wave of the hand.

"Yes, I did hear about that yes," said Molly with a curious expression on her face.

"Well, apparently – he met someone in Spain," said Mrs Hooper with a grin.

"That's it, then? Really – that's it-," said Molly un-impressed and very annoyed over the Holmes-boys.

"Oh no – no – _no_ – as you know he's been known for years as a _confirmed bachelor_ by his mum. Even told her of his failed exploits. Every single detail has been shared, and all of a sudden he goes to Spain – there's a big blank space there – what isn't he telling her – you ask?"

Mrs Hooper was clearly pausing for dramatic effect, having watched too many soaps on the telly had made her a great story-teller in a way, except Molly was half-exasperated by this plot.

"All of a sudden - all of these women make sense – he's been using that as an excuse. Lizzie can't really believe it, until she recalls that his assistant for years - Anthea all of a sudden quits - out of the blue, without so much as a word, and disappears. Where does she disappear off to, then?"

"No," said Molly gaping.

"Yes, she flew off to bloody Spain. Now what can you make of that then?" said Mrs Hooper with a booming laugh.


	17. Reviews

**A/N: **Why have I taken this long? You could call it a severe moment of laziness, and opening another word-document to write something else entirely, because I'm a git. I didn't intend to give it a mini-hiatus, it just happened. Very sorry. Luckily we're nearing the very end of this madness. Thank you for the favourites, the reviews and what-not!

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><p><strong>17: Reviews<strong>

JOHN WATSON'S BLOG

**A THREE-RING PROBLEM**

Many of you have been sending emails concerning the "engagement", and are curious as to why I stopped talking about it. Well, it wasn't really an engagement at the time. More of a sordid mess involving three rings; Sherlock's mother's engagement ring, a copy of that ring and a third belonging to…**Read More.**

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><p><em>OUTSIDE L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon, 11 JULY, 18:34<em>

There were several things that Mrs Holmes knew, she could trust no one, and especially none of her sons, who were both working against each other – one of their childish games. It was horrible to know that they could certainly not have a heart-to-heart about things like regular families, though simultaneously comforting to know the fact that it was an impossibility – a irregularity that made her joyous to have them as her sons.

Nonetheless, she would rather have the entire business over and done with, but then again – she was entitled to her own fun as well.

It was extraordinary how these two little boys grew up to become men who often remarked that they had very little heart, yet they showed their heart quite fully with friends, employees and especially their relation to one another. Even how uproariously childish they could be, they did have an odd affection for each other, despite those involving elaborate schemes, which made her take to smoking again.

What was a mother supposed to do? There she sat texting with her son inside a car, outside of the restaurant where she was supposed to have dinner, but she was not going to make an appearance. The car door soon opened and her eldest son Mycroft appeared looking very self-satisfied, sitting down with a smile, and eyeing the driver in the front who kept his eyes peeled.

"I suppose they're in there, then?" she enquired, as Mycroft did not breach the silence.

"Yes, very displeased I might add," he said with a small chortle.

"Well, he doesn't like catered to scenarios, does he? However I do not find the device particularly important in this venture. I'm already quite aware of his intentions-," she said self-assuredly, causing Mycroft to turn his head abruptly in her direction.

"What are those then mummy?" he asked carefully, brows rose in the typical schoolboy style assuming he knew better.

"He's obviously going to propose, is he not?" she said, at which Mycroft's brows went right up with cheer doubt. She just attended to his misgiving with a beam, "He has a ring, you know."

"A ring – yes - a ring mummy, which he has been trying to get rid off since you gave it to him. I wouldn't entirely say he's very intent on using it," he said pointedly with a tilt of the head.

She just gave a bit of a mock-disappointed expression, before saying with a sigh, "Oh, not that one."

"Mummy, I am very aware that Doctor Hooper is not wealthy, but I do suppose that Sherlock would use a proper ring-," he said as if he were affronted on her behalf.

"I am referring to the other real ring, of course," his mother interrupted waving her hand at his statement.

"Other ring?" asked Mycroft looking a little unsettled, his calm clearly etching away.

"Yes, the one he got in Spain," she said and his face gave the desired effect – the ashen expression, hurriedly concealed with a slightly surprised demeanour. Mycroft was a much better actor in all terms, certainly, than Sherlock was when it came to these particular issues.

"You must have heard of him being there, it was certainly plastered over the papers a great deal. You phoned me that day, I recall, giving quite the telling of his dealings. Well, it was very hard not to be aware of them as it were," his mother said with a tiny laugh.

"I heard certain rumours, but I hadn't properly given it much thought. What Sherlock does abroad isn't entirely my concern-," said Mycroft with a slight dismissive frown.

"Well, I think he intends to use it-," she said rather knowingly.

"He does? Well, at least this business will be over," said Mycroft with a rather strained smile in return.

"Hopefully - of course it depends on her having said yes or not – but we'll know by your eavesdropping that is."

"I wouldn't call it eavesdropping-," he said flustered, soon bringing out his phone, "Oh, of course," he said with scorn staring at the screen.

Mrs Holmes waited for it, "He's of course disabled it. They're trying to get it fixed," Mycroft said pocketing the phone.

"Maybe there is something more to it then," she said with a curious expression, a hint of a grin on her face, as she turned away from her son.

"He might just be wanting a more quiet proposal then," said Mycroft with a grin that looked rather inhuman on his features.

"Perhaps you're right," said his mother, but it was then Molly Hooper came sprinting out of the restaurant looking fuming, before Sherlock promptly received a slap on the face, "It certainly wasn't received well."

_DAY TWENTYONE – 6 JULY 18:15_

The ring had been weighing down on her, the real one in her bag, and constantly reminding her of the issue at hand. She would have to have a proper conversation with him now, at least in Bart's, and try to chat about what had happened between them. This did not give her joy, as it were. More or less the opposite of that, but the man had sent her off – with a ring in her bag, which certainly did terrify her – while also making her a great deal bewildered. This was a real ring, of course, but she couldn't entirely understand Sherlock's need for it. Emergencies? What sort of emergencies? Her mind had wandered that evening to a special place, which it should have avoided, but in the end she found herself inexplicably nervous (besides the obvious reasons as it were). Sherlock however seemed to be busy working, though constantly sending her texts in the days they didn't meet. She could see him having conversations with himself, without her -

Mycroft chose the new sofa - SH

This show is ridiculous. Did you really watch this with Moriarty? – SH

Anderson is being a nuisance – SH

The coffee in the cafeteria is horrendous - SH

She never replied, not fully knowing what to say either, as well – she never really got anything substantial from him. However here, it seemed he was trying to maintain a conversation with her. For whatever reason she did not know, but when she'd finally properly meet him she hoped she would be less confused.

It was then, she was doing her regular paper work over a woman named Muriel Heart, that she overheard Lestrade and Sherlock in the hallway.

"Sherlock, admit it – you fancy Molly," said the voice of Lestrade in a very cheeky manner. Molly bit her lip, eyes going to her side nervously, wishing she wasn't overhearing, yet straining to hear more.

"Why would I have any interest in her? Yes, we have worked together, but she is certainly not my type," he replied with ease.

Molly swallowed, directing herself to writing the minor details of Muriel's passing. Yes, there was some scaring behind her ears – a previous facial perhaps. The woman did seem too pert for her age.

Yet Lestrade did not waver it seemed.

"Come on, then, don't pretend you don't fancy her – taking her all dressed up to that party, or the cases you've been bringing her in on – not even with John have you been this – err – _nice_," said Lestrade giving a little laugh.

"Why would I be interested in a flat-chested woman living with a cat?" he barked, causing Molly to stiffen entirely, not managing to focus on Muriel's scars, let alone how one uses a pen – managing to drop it soundly on the floor.

"That's a bit harsh, Sherlock – certainly-," said Lestrade sounding a bit angry now.

She was not going to listen to this. No, this was none of her business. They worked together. Clearly, that was it. It was just some sort of experiment on his part, after all he was who he was, and she was who she was. She didn't have any interest in trying to_ secure_ him, or so she thought while she clambered down fetching her pen.

"Really? Consider that one Christmas? What on earth could persuade her to think I'd be interested in her purely out of the cheer of her heart? Presents are certainly not my forte, and certainly not vulgar getups," he spat.

She could imagine his face, filled with distaste and marvelling the same of that smug exterior he put that Christmas where she ended up drowning her sorrows in too much red wine.

"You apologised," Lestrade said, as if this was evidence enough.

"I don't think that comes as any surprise, considering her very little confidence - she'd need that - so we wouldn't have her fidgeting herself into distress," said Sherlock, as Molly scribbled hurriedly on her sheet, trying to get it done before she would hear anymore.

"But-," Lestrade started.

"I have very little patience for that sort of woman. Does this help? I suppose you'll stop with the never-ending questioning? I'd rather end some of these ridiculous theories now, before they expand anymore," he snapped, and the sound of the footsteps was soon in her morgue.

She continued writing, furiously scribbling, almost unreadable writing, as he looked at her with that same grin he'd give her. She blinked, wasn't he aware that she could hear him?

"Molly, could you be of assistance for us this evening, then?" he said walking towards her, Lestrade quickly walking inside too, looking more disgruntled, and who easily spotted Molly's demeanour. He looked with a great deal of unease in her direction.

Molly finally looked up from her papers, that she'd managed to finish just in time, "I think you'd better give someone else a ring, don't you?" she spat, soon wheeling Mrs Heart inside again.

"I'm sorry?" he started with a very perplexed expression on his face, as she kept her gaze away from his. Lestrade looked at this exchange with crossed arms, keeping his eyes down all of a sudden.

"Your voice – it carries – especially in hallways – I'm sorry Greg," said Molly soon picking up her paperwork, her eyes a bit more teary than expected, as she was heading for the exit.

"Was it something I said?" asked Sherlock causing Molly to stop in her tracks.

"Excuse me?" she asked, her feelings reverting to that of anger. She looked up at the man horrified, he beheld her for a moment, his eyes giving off something she couldn't entirely understand, and with that she walked off leaving him behind.

_221B BAKER STREET, 11 JULY 23:06_

She dropped her handbag demonstratively on his floor, removing her trench coat with a flourish, before looking at him expectantly. He sat looking rather intently at her, from his chair with his fingers clasped on the chairs armrests. "You're late," he remarks.

"I didn't know I was following any specific time," she said, "I tried to drive around a bit first, as well – I might have been followed."

"Taking precautions. They didn't follow you - only me - Mycroft as always desperate to display his brotherly affection," he said, as she hung her coat away. She just gave a breath at this.

"You were very good I've got to say," he said taking to stroking his cheek idly with an amused expression on his face. "They were certainly convinced."

"Well, it isn't very difficult for me to imagine being angry at you, is it? So are you going to fully explain now? Since I think I deserve that," she said a bit more angrily than intended, still standing very close to the exit, as she wasn't quite certain what do to with herself.

"There are some facts which are even diluted to me, but know this – we've been observed for a very long time," he said palms placed together.

"Yes – you said that – by your mum," she said with a brief nod.

"Also Lestrade and my brother," he added.

She was a bit shocked at this news, yet not at all.

"So they're _not_ watching us now, then?" she asked looking around in the flat.

"Mycroft has tried many times to have certain surveillance on this flat, but I've always managed to overthrow those attempts. They do think I am on my way to Sheffield however. Homeless network are quite practical in that aspect," he said smugly.

She snorted, knowing fully well of them, as she'd have to deal with them a great deal when he was _gone._

"Your mother is looking for something in your flat - I don't suppose you left it behind?" he asked with a raised brow jerking his head to the handbag on the floor.

"Oh God - no, couldn't actually trust my mum could I," she said drily.

He didn't give any comment, she slowly settled down in the chair opposite to him, crossing her legs and waiting expectantly for his big revelation.

"Why did you give mother's ring to John?" he asked in her silence.

"I had enough with one ring already, even if your mum is so persuasive," she said.

"Yes, she can be that," he said standing up all of a sudden. "Yet you kept the other one. That's a bit odd, don't you think?"

She held up a hand in her seat, ignoring his question.

"Don't-," she said hurriedly. He furrowed his brows at this. "Please - sit – I'd rather not have you standing there," she said rather apprehensively.

"Where would you like to have me then?" he asked his mouth quirking upwards briefly.

"Sit," she repeated.

He obliges, seating himself down again. "So my mum is looking in the flat for that ring – because?" she said standing up from the chair, so she would feel taller than him, but he feels still imposing even seated.

"They seem to be under the impression that I got it for you," he quips with a grimace.

She blinked at this, "Oh – really? _Who_ did you get it for then?"

"No one," he said looking at her in disbelief.

"Where did you get the ring, then?" she asked growing irritated with him.

"Spain," he said as if it were blatantly obvious. "My family likes to travel there."

"Right – so what does this have to do with Mycroft then?" she asked trying to piece whatever he was giving her together.

"That evening, when we were at that party, it was my mother who was following us – however she wasn't there for us," he said.

"Mycroft? I didn't remember seeing Mycroft there at all," she said with a confused expression.

"Anthea," he just said. "His former assistant, who recently quit."

"I'm not getting it," she said.

He stands up from his chair one more time; she doesn't stop him, as she clutches at her arms.

"It's a bit too early I suppose-," he drawls closing in on her.

She backs away slowly.

"No, you don't – don't-," she said sternly pointing at him now.

"Don't what Molly?" he asked, standing rather too close, yet not enough.

"You're trying to distract me. I'm still mad at you," she said with clipped tones.

"I know - somewhat infuriating," he said derisively, "I had hoped you wouldn't take my words as gospel – in this case – that is."

"Yes, well, then – that sorts everything out, doesn't it? I'll just-," she said walking off to her things, soon rummaging through her bag, before tossing him the jewellery box, which he caught without effort. "- Pop off now, and leave you to it." He looked at her with a mystified expression.

"You're leaving?" he asked wide-eyed.

"I don't see the point of staying now," she said bringing the handbag on her shoulder. "You've apologised - _your way_ - I suppose - I've got no more rings to deal with, and we're off the hook," she mumbled, stopping up, by the door, as her coat is on again.

He frowned at her, but before he gets a word in she continues, "Sherlock, you've said those things before – I've heard those things a lot over the past few years, a random remark here and - there. Of course, never piled up on top of each other, so I'm sorry if I am reacting like anyone would," she said exasperated at his ignorance.

"Believe me Molly, there is no truth in it-," he added, looking as equally infuriated as she was.

"You repeated things you said at Christmas, and then that kiss – stopping me to _fidget_-," she blurted out, her eyes tearing up despite herself.

"Just a lie – but you do fidget – not so much anymore," he said obvious amusement in his tone.

"You still texted though – still sent me some silly texts telling me to fetch you things-," she said agitated waving her arms about, tempted to bring out her phone, and jam it under his nose.

"All of which you ignored. I couldn't keep entirely away, but I knew it was essential for me not to see you right then."

"Why?" she asked looking at him frowning, blinking away tears.

He spoke gently now, "Frankly, you were too much of a distraction - I'd never get anything done." It was her turn to stare at him wide-eyed, and even a little mortified when she heard steps outside the door.

Another moment ruined perhaps, by a third person, as expected. "Are you sure they didn't follow me?" she asked him uncertainly.

"Quite certain," he said, his eyes flickering over to the door.

"Well, I hope you're right and we fooled them. Serves them right, you know, but are you sure Mycroft is hiding something?" she asked.

"He's certainly hiding someone; I suspect a lover of some sort, but I'd rather not talk of my brother – _Mrs Hudson_ - are you lurking on the steps again?" he said looking directly to the door that was ajar.

"I heard some – noises," said the voice of Mrs Hudson timidly who was lurking on the steps outside the door.

Molly breathed in relief, almost giggling, but trying to maintain her serious demeanour.

"We'll keep it down Mrs Hudson – not to worry," said Sherlock sounding much more pleased than he looked, and they both waited until Mrs Hudson's footsteps were entirely gone.

"I am sorry, Molly – but I won't be keeping you in the dark any longer," he said pointedly, yet it did not seem as if he was speaking of her knowing more.

She stares at him a while, silently observing his face, "A lover then?" asked Molly, "You could have just said." He looked relieved at her words.

"I had hoped you would have a conversation with your mother. I am sure she's up for it now, since she won't find this," he said pleased with the box in his hand.

Molly glared at the box.

"I don't know if I'm entirely up for speaking with my mum, actually," she said with a sigh.

He looked at her curiously, as if he's considering various things – those familiar blue eyes looking around, calculating his next move.

"Is it always going to be like this?" she asked rather quietly now.

Sherlock looked a bit thoughtful for a moment, "Yes," he said, "Always – it is never going to be dull – never the same routine. You might have to adjust yourself to me of course, always-another day - a different story. I'll do something, apologise, you'll put up with it, and we will-,"

"We?" she interrupted, a small smile on her lips.

"Yes – _we_-," he said returning the smile.

"Oh," she uttered softly.

"You're not looking for a boyfriend," he said scathingly, "If you were - you would have wrangled with all of those other men. All of them bored you – very much I think – scaring you with their little ideas of how you should be or how everything is - you don't want that. I'm never going to hold your hand or be a sickeningly affectionate puppy."

"That I doubt," she said with a giggle.

"Really?" he said as if it were a challenge, breathing down on her.

"I fell asleep," she said bursting out in laughter, before she turned very serious again. He tilted her chin up, so she had to look at him properly.

"Yes, I know. I was there," he said looking a bit vexed.

"Don't be funny," she said pointedly.

"I'm not - it's just very easy around you," he said with a quick smile.

"I have to go home, as you said - I've got to talk with my mum. You've certainly not intended to tell me everything," she said mouth slightly open, her eyes lingering on his lips, before focusing on his eyes again.

"It's very early - still," he said with a murmur.

"Are you trying to seduce me?" she asked playfully now.

He considered the idea, raising his brows, starting at her intently, "Your pupils are already dilated-," he said, removing his hand from under her chin, touching her wrist gingerly, "Pulse elevated - I'd say I've done my work already – _if_ - you can keep awake this time," he said narrowing his eyes.

"Depends if I don't suddenly feel bored," she said, her cheeks flushing despite herself, and the laugh threatening to come out was directly intervened with when his lips landed on hers, quickly discarding all thoughts of boredom or sleep in different realms.

_MOLLY HOOPER'S FLAT, __12 JULY__, 00:45_

"Oh – God – so you're saying that-," started Molly, "He's been having a relationship with his secretary?"

"Clearly - best cover-up - however such a cliché, sort of thing you read of in those trashy novels. You'd think he'd be a bit more original," said her mother with a shake of the head.

"Mum," she snapped, "He couldn't control whom he fancied, but it doesn't sound good when she just up and left."

"Yes, Lizzie did say that, so she wants to have a proper chat with him."

Molly looked at her mother genuinely bemused,

"This is how she does that? She gets you to try and nick it off me, so you could give it to her? That doesn't really sound right."

"Well, she has to play dirty, when it's how her sons are playing after all – she thought he'd been telling her things for years, and instead he's been saying twaddle all this time," said her mum with a sigh.

"Who could blame him really?" said Molly with a frown.

"Oh, well – he pointed out that you'd been more or less having it off – if you pardon the expression – with his brother," said her mother giving a booming laugh.

Molly gaped at this, "I wasn't – no – oh -," she started, reddening furiously, before promptly shutting up.

"Yes, that's when his mum contacted me, told me something was going on, and well – look at us now. Fine state we're in, and you haven't gotten any ring, now then?"

The thin line of sympathy Molly had had for Sherlock's brother vanished quite, as she recalled the various newspaper articles that would most likely – not fade away as easily, but she knew it was both brother's fault.

"No, ring, I just know that there's probably going to be a family reunion at some point," said Molly rather crossly cursing mentally over the Holmes' boy's childish feuds.

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><p><strong>AN:** I pity the man, except I don't.


	18. Unforgettable

**A/N: **This isn't the end no. We're not even close, but I needed to give you a back-story at least. Yes, we are not going to jump back and forth anymore. Thank God, I think some of you are thinking. I've been spending ages tampering with this one. I had it ready ages ago, but I didn't feel satisfied. Sorry for the delay. Thank you for your continuing patience and reviews! They are as always a delight!

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><p><strong>18:<strong> _Unforgettable_

_To whom it may concern, _

_Miss Annabelle Rivers has been my PA for seven years and done her job with quiet effectiveness. She is terribly organized and a quick thinker – managing to arrange big meetings or events under a very short time. _

_You are very lucky if she is to be your PA. A cleverer woman you will not find. She terminated her contract with me of own will to search for something much more freeing. Hopefully she will get what she seeks._

_If she is under your employee you are certainly lucky. I recommend her whole-heartedly. _

_Mycroft Holmes_

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><p>He had gone through many PA's in the past, everyone had impeccable resumes, but they all gave up his service after a while. When Annabelle came striding into his office, all doe-eyed confidence, and a bit more distracted than usual he gave her the benefit of the doubt. She could deal with situations with tact, had also apparently been out on the field, but decided that "Shuffling papers" was safer.<p>

Anthea - he named her, due to her flowery scent, which often haunted her steps, and which he mistakenly uttered one late evening preoccupied with singing papers. He made the mistake of saying it out loud.

She faltered at this, staring at him, with rosy hues in her cheeks, "I'm Hera - Goddess of - _spring_, sir?" she enquired with a raised brow, before darting out of his office giving him no time to try to correct his blunder cursing her education simultaneously.

Everyone else was having affairs with their PA's, he however had detached himself from this for years, knowing fully well what issues would crop up, not that he had any family to speak of or any nuisance of a wife occupying his home.

No, there was no issue there really except the fact that said PA wouldn't just be a PA anymore. Not that he properly considered this idea with Anthea walking around his office wearing her skirts, and Agent Provocateur stockings. He'd given his own mother the signal that "It's not entirely my cup of tea – women that is." It was her who'd just assumed he was gay, and he played along with the idea. The idea was a crutch he could lean on when his mother prodded, especially when it came to Annabelle.

"She quit, then? Wasn't she your PA for seven years?"

"Yes, tired of working beneath me I suppose. I can be a somewhat demanding superior," he had reeled off absentmindedly.

Seven years he had worked with her, _Annabelle_ as it were. Their working relationship, consisting of her being famously nerved by him to begin with, proceeded to them having an entirely pleasant way of communicating, and she understood with very little being said between them what he wanted. On her sick-days he'd send her soup, not personally, but she knew it was from him. And on her birthday he'd give her a small token and flowers, but nothing out of the ordinary - nothing subtler than white roses and a silver pen.

Absolutely nothing of the sort happened in the span of two years, their association was the very air of innocent, with her calling him _sir _and him on occasion saying_ Anthea_ when he questioned her properly about her private life.

"You never ask for days off, neither do you ask for sick-leaves, except when I force you home. I do hope you have much more going on?" he enquired causing her to wheel around.

"No, sir," she said with a small nod, hands holding onto some files, looking up at him expectantly.

"There is no boyfriend then?" he prodded curiously twisting his lips into a smile.

She snorted at this, brushing some of her dark hair away from her face "No, sir," she repeated, before leaving his office entirely.

The idea lingered in his mind, an undesirable fancy took place, but he kept it in check. It was such a cliché too fall victim for such an inclination. His little brother was likely to pick up on it, without a doubt. Yet one late night in the office, his weakness overcame him, and he found himself in a passionate embrace despite his better judgement. He soon pulled away from her, taking a breath, before he talked of a work-related subject.

"Yes – err – Mycroft - _sir_," she said clearly rattled.

Their interaction became stilted after that, he knew not how to deal with her, and sent her often away on errands for no reason – she noticed. It wasn't before she introduced herself as "Anthea" to a client, causing his eyes to meet hers, and she just returned a look of innocence – that his limit was reached. A thing she would do occasionally when he wasn't playing along nicely.

It took weeks, before he reciprocated, as she was certainly playing a game with him at this point. She was simply waiting for him to move his chess piece.

"We can't do this," he had uttered leering at her.

"Do what – sir?" she asked baffled.

"I apologise if I startled you – it wasn't my objective."

"You certainly didn't startle me sir."

"You are sure to find yourself some gentleman."

"I'd rather not. I've never been fond of gentle men."

"Anthea," he'd said sternly.

"Yes – sir?"

"Don't play games with me."

"I'm not, sir."

It was then Mycroft threw himself into the abyss, and by god it was delicious – a liberation in many ways. A light in the dark, which he had not thought he had ever considered; their well-kept secret - such a cliché that his little brother would never consider it properly.

The secret was kept, well, with changing of scenary, and Anthea being much more clever than he had given her credit. She was a master in deceit and he took pleasure in that. However, despite the many declarations of it "It'll never get more serious than this," – it turned into a teary night in the end.

"I want more," she had said.

He remembered it vividly, as he stepped out of his car slamming the door behind him eyeing his home. He cleared his throat, flinching at the memory, before taking to walk past the small garden path.

"I can't give you that."

"I quit."

"That doesn't change anything."

"Goodbye Mr Holmes," she said holding out her hand, which he did not touch, and she left without a word for two months. He kept track on her whereabouts, making her path easier, causing job offers to come her way, but she wouldn't have it. Didn't bare the mention of his name, and in the end he avoided hers entirely.

But he couldn't stay away; she was his weakness, similar to that of his own family. She was by definition a part of him, but when he had given her the ring thinking he'd secure both their happiness, "You don't want to give me this, just look at you – you look so - guilty – I don't want it."

"Keep it," he said pushing the box into her hands.

Her fingers clasped around it, as tears dropped into her lap.

"I've never been one for trinkets, really – something to remember me by," he added in her silence.

"I'll trade it then," she said with a small laugh, fighting back the tears, before pocketing the thing. Her warm hand resting on the box - obviously she never did sell it, as his brother had gotten it off here in Spain. His family knew now for certain, which was aggravating, and they were bound to bring it up. Mycroft locked up his door; faltering the minute he'd unlocked it, and taking to frown as he stepped inside. They had been intentionally careless in their entry, without a doubt, as he could hear the loud chattering from the dining room. The smell of food was distinct too. Mycroft gave to roll his eyes, taking to drop his briefcase, as he headed for the dining room. He showed the great mahogany doors aside and gave them all a disdainful glare, "That's unexpected – you've never visited mummy."

His mother just raised her glass at him smugly, while he narrowed his eyes on his little brother who had Molly Hooper seated besides him. Other guests surrounding the table were John and Mary Watson, the latter gave a small wave, and the former muttered a "Hello."


	19. Dinner

**A/N: **I'm sorry, for this taking so long, but I was never pleased with it. I'm not even pleased with it now. Worst of all, there's only one chapter left. It won't be long before that one is out. It's already finished technically. If it helps - I've been working loads and haven't had time - barely have time now too.

* * *

><p><strong>19:<strong> _Dinner_

"To what do I own the pleasure mother? I had hardly expected a dinner party in my own home, but you've certainly expected me," said Mycroft with a smile, which did not reach his eyes. He was sneering at them, his blue eyes surveying all of them sitting now rigidly in their seats. Mary felt properly fretful there she sat. She was John's wife, but she didn't quite understand why she was needed or John for that matter really.

Mycroft sat at the end of the table, the lone vacant chair, opposite Mrs Holmes who looked properly – for a lack of a better word – _delighted_. This awkward dinner setting was her cup of tea, and seemed by definition her usual business. If there was anyone who looked out of place, it was those who were not in blood-ties with the Holmes' family, and who were probably the only ones who understood the essence of uncomfortable the situation was to begin with.

The fact that the woman had unceremoniously dropped into their home, the minute they'd put the kettle on, settled neatly into their sofa, and she'd gotten off her chest what she suspected was happening between the pair of "We're not a couple," – the doorbell rang, and they were astounded to find Mrs Holmes inviting herself in, taking herself a cup, and observing their home.

It was somewhat unnerving to see such a well-manicured, well-suited lady in what was a very colourful cosy home; "I was wondering if you could join me for dinner this evening."

John had stared for a minute, while Mary had just said, "Yes, of course," without even considering the situation properly. She never properly considered it to be anything more than dinner. It was in fact a dinner invitation, and to tell the truth she was itching for an invitation to her the Holmes' residence. John had been guffawing about it, and it was irritating her that she'd been left out the loop – instead found herself in a pregnancy-scare. That lasted a minute, _thank you to Sherlock Holmes._

Mrs Holmes had just stood up at that, given them a cheery smile, saying, "I'll give you the address to Mycroft's, then."

"Mycroft?" John had blurted out, as was to be expected really.

Somehow they found themselves travelling to a rather posh quiet neighbourhood, finding a brick of a building, which felt more at place in a Charles Dickens story than anything else.

"It's very – what's the word-," she'd started the minute they got out of the taxi, "Brown."

Inside it was elegantly decorated, a pure bachelor pad, and more fitting a man well up in his seventy's retirement than a man in his late forty's at all.

"So, I suppose he's very high up, then – in the government?" she'd asked, when they'd finally gotten scurried into what seemed to be a study crammed with books, and a fine wood desk – with golden instruments on top.

"Yes, you could say that," said John eyeing the place.

"It's not only going to be us, and Mycroft, then?"

"I suppose not, I rang Sherlock – he's on his way," he added with a nod.

"I don't know if that comforts me really," she snorted.

The next person who was ushered inside the room was Molly who looked nettled, "Oh – hello – you're here too, then?" she said giving them a tiny wave, "Never supposed you'd be here."

"I don't think any one of us ever thought we'd be at Mycroft's," said John with a chuckle, "Where's Sherlock – he's not with you then?" He tried that very casually, but Mary could see that Molly wasn't giving away anything.

"No, oh – I came alone," she said, "What do you think this is about, then?"

"Mycroft obviously," said the voice of Sherlock, who entered the room, "Mother's taking care of some last minute arrangements, but we'll soon be ushered into the dining room, any minute I assume – John – a word."

John looked at his friend bewildered, before they disappeared into a corner. Mary just stared at Molly who kept constantly tugging at the collar of her blouse, trying to pull it upwards – and then she caught sight of it.

There was a certain familiar bruise upon her throat, which even how much Molly tugged upon her blouse did not conceal well enough. Mary's eyes widened at those too familiar markings upon her friends dainty flesh.

"Oh," started Mary gaping at her friend causing Molly to look at her wide-eyed in turn, triggering John and Sherlock who were whispering in the corner to look at her in surprise, "It's a very lovely place isn't it?" she said as casually as she could muster.

Sherlock's sharp blue eyes however landed on Molly's neck. His mouth tugged into a smile, it was obvious that he was the creator of said marking, and as soon as it happened he was in whispered conference with John again. John however was all-too curious raising his brows at her, at which she gave a brief shrug, before directing her eyes towards the ceiling. She wasn't terribly good at acting really.

She hurried off to Molly who'd shrunk off into a corner, standing by an overly large plant, clearly hoping to be shielded by it, but failing miserably – "So explain why you've got a massive love bite on your neck then?" she whispered rather frantically to the female who shrunk at this even more.

"I had an accident," said Molly who consciously grabbed for her neck, turning a bright red at the mere mention.

Mary smiled leaning towards the other woman's ear, "Fell on your throat, then – possibly – right – you know - of all things I thought Sherlock would be – I'd think he'd be a bit more covert."

"If you were right about all that, then this wouldn't have happened in the first place," said Molly biting her lip with barely concealed amusement.

Mary grinned, "Really?"

Molly seemed intent on revealing more of whatever had happened between the pair, but soon turned her attentions towards the plant again as Mrs Holmes reappeared.

"We'll be going to the dining room then," she announced with a pleased smile beckoning them. Sherlock followed his mother, with Molly awkwardly keeping a distance between herself and him, and John soon went side by side his wife, "What's going on then?" he whispered into her ear.

"Now is not the time John. It is about Mycroft anyway," interrupted Sherlock who was clearly exasperated with their slow process towards the dining room.

John gave him a look, "I've caught on so far – we are in his home, it's a bit difficult not to notice the moody décor," he said with a bit of a grin, as they seated themselves around the table, which was immaculately set. Steam was rising from the food itself, everything looked delicious, except nobody seemed to feel compelled to eat either.

Molly was the one who took the longest time sitting down. If she sat herself besides Mary and John it would become un-even it Sherlock alone on the other end, and in the end – there was very little she could do, but sit by the man.

Nobody spoke, in the end Mary felt compelled to break the silence, "There's something very Dickens about it, isn't there?" said Mary with a grin. "I'm just expecting him to pop up reprimanding us all."

"Not very unlikely," said John with a smile.

"Mycroft has been very secretive indeed," said Mrs Holmes with a content smirk, "As Sherlock was helpful enough to point out."

"I'm sure he was," said John, "Now really – I get that this is about Mycroft, but what exactly about Mycroft, then?"

"I'm sure Sherlock isn't unwilling to fill you in," said Molly who took to pour herself a glass of wine, which Mary closely followed suit too.

"He was actually," said John crossing his arms. This caused Mrs Holmes to look at her son in surprise.

"Darling – really? You haven't told _any_ of them?"

A furrow appeared between the man's brow's, as he gave a weak nod of the head towards Molly, "I know – well – I know as much as he told me, which could possibly be absolutely nothing from all I – know," she said rather flushed, as if being informed by him was a great embarrassment somehow.

Sherlock smirked at this, while John gave a bit of a chuckle, "Has Mycroft done something bad, then? Since this is starting to feel like an intervention," said Mary curiously.

Mrs Holmes smiled, "Well, in some ways it certainly is one, depending on my son, and his ways of acting. I had always supposed he was the less secretive one of my son's really, but apparently – Sherlock is the obvious one, while Mycroft is the bearer of secrets."

"It is in his line of work, mother," said Sherlock with a sigh.

"Certainly is, but even his private life? Yours was obvious by the mere glimpse," she laughed.

Sherlock frowned, "Obvious?" he said clearly dissatisfied by this statement, as if anything in his life was obvious at all, "I'd beg to differ."

"The television programme, the news-articles, the ridiculous diversions – darling, you're easily understood in your silly ways, even with that extra ring in Molly's bag, which I'm sure she's still dutifully carrying."

"It is with me again," he drolly replied.

"_Another_ ring?" questioned John, "Or is the same one?"

"How many rings are there?" said Mary leaning forward on the table bewildered.

"A total of – _three_ if I am not mistaken. My genuine one, the duplicate of that – to keep me off the grass – and then the most intricately woven piece belonging to Mycroft," said Mrs Holmes.

"Oh," started Mary wide-eyed. John clearly caught on as well – half-gaping. "Who's – what – _really_?"

"Exactly - my son - who has for years brought about the fanciful idea that he was indeed not a ladies man gave away a ring a while back, which in turn got returned," said Mrs Holmes with a sad expression.

"Not exactly returned mother," spat Sherlock, who seemed to be defending his brother. From what Mary had heard of their relationship, it had certainly been a strained one, at which she was confused, but John didn't look less bemused himself.

"Yes, I know – kept away, stored in a bank to be forgotten in Spain of all places," she said with a derisive snort.

"It was where she had taken residency."

"Yes, to get away from him – his own secretary of _how_ many years?"

Sherlock looked astonished, "Are you disapproving of his choice?"

Mrs Holmes looked for the first time properly disappointed, her opinion would have been known had not the doors slid up and Mycroft Holmes entered ruining the revelation of her judgment.

* * *

><p>"I had thought you'd be somewhat earlier than this, luckily – we haven't started without you, so no worries on that part," said Mrs Holmes cheerily in reply to her son who soon sat himself on the high end of the table looking distinctly ruffled.<p>

"I got caught up in work," he said with a sneer, "I see you all took time off your busy schedules to pay me a visit – how _delightful_."

"Now, Mycroft," started Mrs Holmes.

"I expect this is about my rather indelicate situation then," interrupted Mycroft who was pouring himself a glass of wine, his eyebrow arched, as he looked rather vehemently at the four other people occupying the table, "I would have thought it would involve less of an audience mother."

John started a bit, it was obvious that Mycroft wasn't appreciative of the whole scenario devised here, whatever good intentions or not good intentions Mrs Holmes had, but he couldn't imagine she was there to dissuade him from any fancy he had in whoever it was who received his ring.

It didn't mesh well with his ideas of the Holmes' brother's mother to have her disapprove of any of their doings, except possibly hiding said projects – though he couldn't exactly imagine Mycroft being infatuated with anyone. Truth be told, there was very little he could imagine Mycroft doing except the occasional disapproving tut thrown at Sherlock, when he didn't do his bidding.

"If you hadn't played so downright dirty Mycroft I wouldn't have done these things, you could have easily divulged about Annabelle when you were in the car with me yesterday."

"That's a finished subject."

"Then it would not have been so difficult to breach," she said with raised brows.

Mycroft snorted, "Exceptionally easy to speak with_ you_ about all of these things – mother – I asked for her hand, and she said no."

"You had a relationship."

"I was her employer, that was the basis of our relationship. She quit and went off to Spain."

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, taking to cough slightly in his hand, as Mary took hold of his other free one giving it a bit of a squeeze as they both sat there feeling extremely out of place. It was one to have a personal conversation with your mother, but with four other people present – even Sherlock who somewhat looked amused, though if he wasn't mistaken – somewhat pitying too at his elder brother.

"Mycroft – you asked for her hand, your secretary -,"

"So?" he enquired clearly puzzled by the repetition.

John was half-standing up from his chair, but Mary held him down by his hand. Considering it would most likely be more difficult to slip out of the room without everyone else noticing. Sherlock was fascinated by every word, while Molly was paying extra attention towards the cutlery, besides taking big gulps from her wine glass.

Mrs Holmes stared at her son who was glaring at her in return.

"It won't happen again, mother," snapped Mycroft who now stood up from his own chair, pushing the chair back with force, "If that is your main concern, that is."

She started to shake her head, her mouth quirking upwards, as she said with a smile, "I am concerned with the fact that you didn't go after her."

Mycroft blinked, "You have none to fear on that score."

"You are my concern darling and pretending you're not unhappy about the matter is ridiculous. You love her."

"She said no," he retorted, before saying, "Now if you might excuse me, I have some business to attend to."

He was on the way out of the room, his strides long, his back straight, as he strode towards the doors – sliding them open abruptly to the sight of a dark haired woman standing on the other side, "Now this is a surprise, I suppose," said the woman, who John sat gaping at.

Mary stared at her husband who quickly shut his mouth.

Annabelle stood in front of Mycroft, her hands clasped at her front, as she gave the man a questionable look, "MYCROFT," shouted Sherlock.

He'd taken to standing up, his one hand clenched around something. Mycroft turned around as Sherlock threw a box towards him, which he caught effortlessly into his hand, and he looked at it in surprise; a tiny black box with a obvious unquestionable content.

"I suppose we might, maybe, go away somewhere – _Mycroft_ – if that isn't too much to ask?" said Annabelle with a smile.

* * *

><p>"You went to bloody Spain, because you thought your brother was in some kind of trouble?" asked John. They were standing outside of Mycroft's, having left the pair at their own for once, a request, which Mrs Holmes took quite willingly.<p>

"In some aspects, yes," said Sherlock half-amused. "Mother was obviously trailing me for some reason or the other – if it wasn't due to Mycroft's influence, there couldn't be anything else."

"And you found her – there – then?"

"Obviously."

John looked at his friend for a moment, "I didn't know you were – err – _romantic_," he said grinning.

Sherlock scoffed, "Certainly not John. It's for our government's sake that I took these measurements. Mycroft might start a war with all that brooding."

"Right –_ so_ – what about you and Molly, then? What's going on there – she slapped you yesterday," said John eyeing Molly who was standing laughing with Mary.

"Indeed she did," said Sherlock clearly pleased.

"So – you're alright, then?"

"I suppose we are," said Sherlock with a smirk.

"There aren't any more surprises, then?"

"I suppose not - depends on your view on things."

"_Sherlock_," said John irritated.

"There are no more surprises, John," he said, Mrs Holmes soon appeared by their midst.

She was taking a great deep breath, admiring her son for a moment, before saying, "I hope you've learnt your lesson too Sherlock."

"Unquestionably so, mother, however I am sure you'll rectify that if I were to have slipped in any of my newfound knowledge."

"Take good care of her," she said giving him a peck on the cheek, "And remember -," but she didn't finish her sentence, instead she just gave John a hug, before disappearing into a car.

Both men stood as the car drove away. John looked at the car, and then at his friend, "What was it she was going to say?"

"Oh, you know, John – what is it typical of mother's to say – her unpredictably so too – _mother knows best_."

"Right," said John with a grin, as his wife appeared by his side. The four of them soon disappeared off into their own car, leaving Mycroft and Annabelle happily to their own.


	20. Questionable

_A questionable point in the future_

Molly Hooper lay on the sofa, eyes half-open, as a newspaper was on her belly. She'd been lying down for approximately an hour on the sofa, doing absolutely nothing of value; it was in fact Sunday, and she was entirely allowed to be frightfully lazy. Sherlock was to be home any second, having texted her about the current resolution on his case, and she was expecting him to bolt through the doors any minute.

Her having moved in was something that naturally happened, spending as much time in Baker Street; it took place without much ceremony or much anxiety. Having never lived with any man before it was certainly a different experience all together, and living with Sherlock was most likely a completely different one than any other man she assumed. She was right.

He would rave if things were too quiet, she'd luckily established a quick and sure way of distracting him, but even that would falter if he were occupied with any ridiculous cases. Occasionally it would certainly make him take a half-hour longer to appear, when Lestrade talked of any scene – it depended entirely on her state of undress. They were happy with their life – which went with many sets of routines. She couldn't be John and she didn't want to be either. Never would she be at his beck and call, for she knew that he most certainly wouldn't be at hers, if his mind were otherwise occupied. They did argue, a lot, and often would resolve their issues upon the floor, or against the wall. She'd become stronger around him, that was certain, and it was impossible not to be influenced by his presence.

Molly finally crawled off the sofa, intending to find something to wear, even if she knew he might rip them off the moment he entered, but she couldn't be wearing her nightie all day either. So, she took to rummage through the closet, pushing aside fabrics – and eyeing articles of clothing distastefully, when she finally found a simple dress. It slipped from its hanger, falling into the bottom of the closet. She bent down irritated, as her hands grabbed for the soft thin fabric, when her hands came upon something hard.

Molly's breath hitched, as her hand clamped around the object, "It can't – you've got to be kidding me," she muttered.

She was staring at a ring box -_ another_ one lurking in their flat. How many rings did the man have? There was no manner of living with him, if he was constantly hiding secret duplicates away. She opened it up, "It's real," she said in wonder.

"I told you not to do that, you know."

Molly turned around in surprise, still squatting upon the floor, and gaping at Sherlock who was standing in the doorway, "What's this then – another one of your rings?" she asked slightly irritated, "You're not saying that Mycroft – not _now_ – not with Annabelle and him so happy – they've got Andrew even."

Sherlock looked affronted at the suggestion, "Certainly not."

"Why are you hiding it away in the closet, then?" she said standing up, it still perched in her hand.

Sherlock looked at it pointedly, a curious expression on his face, as he said, "For it not to be found."

"Yes, got that bit – why is it not to be found?"

"Because it wouldn't be particularly beneficial for the one receiving the ring to find it of course," he said as if it was obvious.

"I thought it was one of those rings again – I'm sick of rings, really," she said with a shake of the head.

"That's a pity," he said with an odd expression.

Molly grimaced, "Right – fine – ok," she said handing him the box, which he soon took in his still gloved hand. Her mind wheeled for a moment, another intake of breath, as she stared at the box, and then him, "Who is it for, then? – is it for Mrs Hudson?"

"She might be my landlady, but we've never been _that_ friendly after my own recollection."

Molly turned pale, "Wait – what – no – is that – is that mine-,"

"Technically it is_ still _mine."

"_Sherlock."_

"Yes, I was hoping to find a better occasion really."

"Really?" she said gobsmacked, her hands on her face in absolutely horror, "No, Sherlock – you can't be serious – you want to – _really_?"

"I could hide it for another occasion, if you find it terribly unsettling, it wasn't my intention for you to find it now either," he said throwing the box into the closet.

Molly stared at the action, for he soon had his arms wrapped around her waist, "You're just going to leave it there," she said watching him, as his mouth was brushing her neck gently.

He lifted his head from her neck displeased,

"At one stage you looked absolutely terrified on the prospect of me asking for your hand, and the other you're worried about the location of said ring?" he said with a raised brow.

Molly soon wrenched herself out of his grip to his annoyance. Her eyes filled with amusement, as she grabbed for the box, opening it, revealing a beautiful soft pink ring. "It is quite lovely." She stared at it for a minute, shutting the lid, before saying, "I could keep it safe, you know – properly safe, not just tucked away in the back of a cupboard or between a pair of books."

Sherlock eyed her curiously at this, "You intend to keep it safe, and you presume you'll know a better hiding place, then me?"

She bit her lip, "Yes, well – I could, you know, keep it on me."

"It's much too important to be kept in your bag," he said thoughtfully.

"On – _me_ - Sherlock."

"Ah," he said entertained, "So you intend to keep it safe by wearing it?"

"Yes," she said with a nod.

"Yes?"

"_Yes."_

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><p><strong>AN:** Did I just finish this? Yes, unfortunately enough. I know, it could probably have been a big bang really, but all my energies are surged to another point entirely. Thank you to those who read, commented, favourited - this absolutely riddiculous, slightly messy-fic, which probably had some heads turning. I hope things are cleared up? Well, the things that are properly important that is. If I didn't forget something (it's been a while). I'm just glad you had the time and the patience to read this - you're welcome to read Texted Consent (complete) or its sequel Cold betrothal (wip). I hope it was worth it in the end. Sorry, if it isn't as sexy, as I thought it would have been - I promise for a much dirtier fic in the future (cough, Cold betrothal, cough).


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